


Vode An – Brothers all

by _Lightning_ (Lightning070)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adoption, Adorable Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), Angst, Badass Cara Dune, Bounty Hunters, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Clones, Comrades in Arms, Death Watch (Star Wars), EU references, F/M, Family Issues, Gen, Gideon wants the baby, Journey, Mand'alor Jango Fett, Mandalore restored, Mandalorian Culture, Mando&Cara alliance, Mother-Son Relationship, Nite Owls, Origin Story, Planet Mandalore (Star Wars), Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Protective Din Djarin, Space Battles, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Young Din Djarin, kuiil is in our hearts, oya manda!, post-galactic war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27016849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning070/pseuds/_Lightning_
Summary: After leaving Nevarro, Din Djarin has few certainties left in his life: he's still a Mandalorian, he must seek the Child's birth planet, and the comrades who escaped Gideon's slaughter are alive, somewhere in the Galaxy. The latter is more of a hope, and he has no idea how to live on hope. Especially when all his other certainties, the ones he has always shielded between his heart and the beskar, seem to crumble with every step he takes, diverting his search towards something much darker and further away than he would have ever believed.Not all of his ghosts have marched away yet.[The Mandalorian spin-off // Legends // EU-Mandalorians // Adventure// Mando&BabyYoda // Din&Cara // English is not my first language!]
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Bo-Katan Kryze/Fenn Rau, Din Djarin & Cara Dune
Comments: 34
Kudos: 64





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Vode An](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/700819) by _Lightning_. 



> Hello there!  
> This is going to be a translation (or rather an *attempt* at a translation) for my story in Italian, which you can find here https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=3914784&i=1 . I'm not even going to try and rewrite this story directly into English: it would be too time-consuming and I still doubt it's worth the effort *sigh* Even though I do have the hope that The Mandalorian English fandom is a lot more active than the Italian one!
> 
> I hope you will find it interesting, provided you manage to close an eye for any mistakes you should find among its words :') Be kind and tell me if there are any ♥
> 
> Enjoy, and I'd be thrilled to know what you think ♥

©Graphic: [Miryel](https://instagram.com/miryel89?igshid=1v1c3m7xqh5i)

_“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”_ [1]

**Death Watch Encampment, Planet ???, ??? BBY**

"What were their names, _ad'ika?_ "  
  
Din stares at her with veiled eyes: even the profile of her helmet is watered down, blurred along with the cloudy and smoke-filled sky, where two pearly moons are pinned. He doesn't understand how she just called him, but that word has a reassuring, almost familiar undertone.

"Amee and Atriar," he replies, slowly, rubbing his fist against his eyes to wipe away the tears. They burn and water from the smoke. Not the smoke alone, but he keeps telling himself so, sniffing slowly and not even noticing it anymore. He feels exhausted, but he is not sleepy.

"We must honor them," says the warrior, tucking a hem of the bantha blanket under his chin, in a gesture as unexpected as it is natural, as if she were used to doing so. "We must always honor those who have marched away."

Din furrows, trying to imagine that concept. He sees two figures who, instead of evaporating in a metallic roar, walk far away, towards the horizon. So far away they're almost invisible. But they're alive.

The explosion still echoes in his eardrums, but it doesn't even brush them anymore. Marching away. He doesn't know what that means, and he knows it all the same. He likes it, on a deeper level he cannot fully grasp yet. But he welcomes home the roots of those words. They taste like a return, and you always return home.

The warrior stares at him as if waiting for his reaction, sitting placidly with a blaster resting sideways on her crossed legs, one finger on the trigger guard. Behind her, figures in black and blue move in the darkness, among the tents, with a rustle of cloaks and a tinkle of steel, speaking in a fluid and at times blunt language, unknown to him and with the helmets giving it a metallic hue. Someone sings in the distance, in a soft chorus that sounds like a lullaby.

"How does it work?" he finally asks, softly, with his eyes reflecting her T-shaped visor, where the flames of the campfires flicker.

He doesn't really know how, but he has the distinct impression of her smiling under that impenetrable layer of metal. It's hinted in the way she slightly tilts her helmet forward as if she wanted to look at him more closely. She holds out a gloved hand and he grabs it instinctively, faster than when he grabbed it just a few hours before. It almost completely engulfs his child's hand, without crushing it one bit. It anchors him to her, solid. Safe.

"Say it with me ..."  


  


**City of Iziz, Planet Onderon, 9ABY**

« _... ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc. Ni partayli, gar darasuum,_ Amee. Atriar. _Ruu'buir_ , ” Djarin said, softly against his helmet. It was soundproof, but his voice still didn't cross the threshold of a barely audible whisper. He settled back on the hard mattress and automatically adjusted his grip on the blaster, locked in the hand he was using as a pillow. He hesitated and swallowed before going on: "Kuiil ..." He shut his eyes and cut his voice against his teeth, dispelling the temptation to put a _dar'manda_ droid on the list.

Along with everyone else, even though he had seen their empty _buy'cese –_ at least some of them – and knew perfectly well to which members of the Tribe they belonged to. They weren't marching away just yet. Not yet. Not everybody. He told that to himself, and after so many years he wished he had the excuse of a smoky evening again, even now that he had beskar hiding his face. He squinted, with a wave of suffocating oppression that swelled in his chest, under the armor.

A faint, childish gurgling rose from the suspended cradle nearby, and he came back to the present. He reached out in an instinctive move to adjust the flap of the blanket that had slipped out of the cradle. The wailing subsided at once, soothed by that simple gesture, and he took a deeper and steadier breath as well, going back to trying to sleep.

He heard Dune move silently from her guard post by the door, with a rustle of robes and the mechanical sound of the Amban rifle. He briefly felt her gaze resting on him, then slipping away and becoming alert again.

Djarin stayed silent, leaving that ancient rite of his hanging in the dark.


	2. The Bounty Hunter (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect any feedback on this story, so I was amazed to see that it already received some comments on the very first day and a half from its publication. This only motivated me to keep it up with the translation, hoping I won't let you down ♥
> 
> A big thank you to the ones who left kudos, bookmarks, and commented on the last chapter! You made my day!

Episode 1  
**THE BOUNTY HUNTER**

Part I

**City of Agruss, Planet Zygerria, 9ABY**

**D** ead or alive. That was his favorite type of contract.

Freedom of action, leeway and emergency exit included in the package. Precious luxuries, in the claustrophobic labyrinth of narrow streets intersecting at the foot of the _ziggurats_ in the Zygerrian capital.

The sun beat down with vivid force on the chromed metal as he stepped out from the sharp shade of the steps that loomed over the lower neighborhoods. He was grateful for the helmet's thermal insulation, and he took a deeper breath into the almost cool air, tasting a puff of exotic smells brought to him by the warm wind. Spice, mainly, and the burnt stench of its dregs, but also an honeyed scent of flowers that spread from the vertical gardens above. The resulting mixture unpleasantly stuck to his palate.

He slowed down a little when he found himself engulfed by the megalithic shade, skirting along the peeling wall of one of the many buildings made of duraclast bricks, tightly pressed together. A dry grunt from the Wookiee behind him caught his ear, and he promptly halted before the next corner, his palm already resting on the end of his blaster. _Here_.

He glanced at the peripheral vision in his helmet, identifying the not too discreet mountain of reddish hair trying in vain to pass unnoticed, despite her two and a half meters height and the lethal bowcaster she was holding. He saw her suddenly stop and turn her huge head, her nose curled up and turned upward as if she had caught a noteworthy scent. He allowed himself an interrogative whisper that did not leak beyond the helmet, transmitted directly to the Wookiee's comlink:

" _Ikko? What's up?_ "

Ikkothnayyrl, who, after several manglings, had fortunately accepted that nickname without much of a fight, shook her head and grunted incomprehensibly as she walked pasr him with a single stride. He got the hint and sped up his pace, rather sure that their target was approaching unexpectedly. He turned into the alleyway, his Amban rifle rhythmically thudding against his back, and he tried to mingle his footprints among the many others, humanoid or not, already disrupting the dusty ground. The air was still, deserted: most of the inhabitants had already taken shelter in their homes, avoiding the scorching midday sun.

He approached the well-known doorway, nothing more than an automatic fake-wood door embedded in the wall, barely visible if you weren't looking - and they _had_ looked for it, alright, for a whole morning of stakeouts on the sun-bleached roofs. Judging by the Wookiee's restlessness, who was watching his back while she kept sniffing into the air in an implicit spur to hurry up, it was the right one.

He unsheathed his vibroblade and tore the control unit from its case. It only took him a few moves to rearrange the cables and hear the hiss of the opening door. He nodded for Ikko to enter, and followed her after reassembling the panel. The door slam shut behind him, sinking him into the dense gloom of a windowless shop-house. The helmet's night vision came to life, painting the world a dimensionless green. A single space with a small size extended after a short hallway, on which two even more narrow rooms opened, creating good angles. There only was a single exit, the one they had just entered - it was the ideal place for an ambush.

He stepped forward and caught the glow of the Wookiee's eyes, suspended above what, undeniably, was a spice laboratory: the counter once used for sales and now filled with stills, test tubes, and precision scales, the dim, reddish work lamps and the dizzying scent of chemical fumes left no room for doubt.

So, Amon Baath had indeed moved on to actual spice manufacturing. A change of career that was not much more ethical and legal than providing labor power for extracting the raw material, but just as profitable. No one in the Senate, Imperial or Neo-republican, would've turned down a touch of spice to cheer up their galactic rallies, nor were they keen on asking too many questions about where it came from.

In the fleeting flash of those thoughts, he'd already blaster-checked that the central hall, the latrine, and the closet that served as a dormitory for at least half a dozen smugglers were clear. Good: the leak had tipped off the right ears, avoiding those of their target.

Ikko fumbled with the bandolier running across her chest, unhooking what Djarin recognized as a smoke bomb. He approved the choice with a slight tilt of the head - better to stun the target and avoid activating the spice with explosives or blinding grenades. He then crouched behind a cabinet that gave him a clear view on the entrance, blaster pointed, in a position that he could have possibly maintained for hours. He took the safety off. The Wookiee tried to make herself less conspicuous, bending to one knee in the dim light.

They waited.

He could feel his heart bounce in his chest in that pleasant, slightly accelerated rhythm anticipating the action, ready to pump blood and adrenaline to his brain and muscles. He'd missed that feeling. He admitted it in passing, a thought that twisted between the straight lines of the primary instincts of attack and flight, now at their peak.

He loosened his grip on the blaster, one finger at a time starting from the little finger, and then tightened it again in a little wave that followed his slowed-down breathing. A calming gesture, as he gathered focus before the fight; a gesture that for years had been just a mechanical part of his prep rituals before each assignment. He now performed it willingly. Even though the current bounty was an easy one. He had shot down and captured way more difficult and dangerous targets. He surely had hunted down more unusual ones. The most unusual of them all awaited him on the _Razor Crest_. And that was the reason why he couldn't allow himself to die stupidly in a filthy spice lab on a ruined planet.

He turned his head to Ikko: she gave him a fanged smile that gleamed in the suffocating dim light. He did not want to imagine how she was planning to "welcome" Baath, but he considered once again the advantages of the "dead or alive" clause on a bounty. _Whole_ was not a requested quality. And after years of slavery in the spice mines, he certainly wouldn't be the one denying Ikko the pleasure of ripping the arms off a fleeing Zygerrian slaver, if it had to come to that. The fur around the Wookiee's neck was thinner and faded, a testament to the tight shock collar she had been wearing constantly during her captivity. No, he resolved, _alive_ was not a priority for either of them.

Right then, the Wookiee let out a low, long and vibrating rumble, followed by a nod of the bowcaster towards the door. _He's coming, I can smell him_.

Djarin nodded dryly, letting out a soft snort: the acrid scent of spice stagnating in the shop began to leak through the filter, mixed with the typical, pungent musk of felids. He readied himself to give her the signal for the smokescreen.

The hiss of the opening door sparked off a rush of adrenaline - he recognized Baath's sharp-eared figure against the light in the doorway, wrapped in a tattered robe – the rush shot through his spine and triggered the first blaster shot along with the signal:

" _Now._ "

The grenade landed precisely between the Zygerrian's paws, the laser hit the door panel and a gush of blackish smoke sprang from the bomb. Djarin activated the helmet's thermal vision.

" _Skug!_ " Baath swore between his fangs, turning on his agile and elongated heels to dash towards the exit, only to find it blocked: his claws scratched uselessly against the synthetic wood.

Djarin sprang to his feet from his cover, ready to plant thebusiness end of the blaster between the felid's sharp shoulder blades and then order him to surrender. But juste then Baath spun around, cutting the air with a blind blow that screeched harmlessly against the beskar visor. Djarin barely held back the urge to pull the trigger.

Dead _or_ alive, of course ... but it was a three hundred credits difference. He swerved to the side, then charged his elbow against Baath's ribs and managed to throw him against the wall. Instead of being stunned, Baath shot away back into the lab, drawing a concealed blaster and barely missing his shoulder with a blast of energy. The snare he had thrown from his wristband was deflected and whipped the air, and Djarin cursed to himself: he had forgotten how elusive and energetic those damned felids could be.

However, he did not try to stop him: the cloudy haze and the sense of smell stunned by the jumble of spice, mold and smoke dust prevented the trafficker from realizing his mistake, and he found himself with a bowcaster pressed into his snout. Ikko, who had emerged from the fog like an apparition, growled from the depths of her throat, ordering him to stop, but without opening fire. Baath let out a terrified sound, halfway between a feral hiss and a yelp, but he still didn't let go of the blaster and spun around on himself in a futile attempt to keep them both at gunpoint.

Djarin took a single step closer, relaxing his shoulders, and slowly sheathed his weapon, gaining the attention of the enemy blaster. He made an imperceptible nod towards Ikko, just enough to make Baath's gaze snap back in that direction. He looked away just as quickly at the sight of her size, more and more evident as the smoke cleared away.

“You can give up. Or I can tell the Wookiee to give you her greetings from Kessel. "

Ikko released a roar that made the walls tremble, making clear that she was eager to put Kashyyyk's customs into action. The sound of the enemy blaster bouncing off the ground followed it soon after, and Baath knelt with his paws interlocked behind his neck, his felid eyes reduced to angry slits, with the vertical pupil barely visible.

"Mandalorian scum," he hissed as Djarin grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, lifting him to his feet to let Ikko handcuff him.

He then dragged him towards the exit with the same rudeness Baath would have received if he hadn't opened his mouth, letting the insult slip on him. Ikko smashed the door open with a shoulder, letting the intense light of the early afternoon cut through the dark. A small crowd of curious and alarmed citizens had gathered beyond the threshold, called by the uproar, but the sight of the Wookiee and her Neo-republican pauldron was enough to disperse it quickly.

Djarin led Baath with a glove gripped in a vise on his shoulder. The former slaver squirmed, twisting his neck to look him in the face, or rather, plant his yellow eyes in his own beyond the visor. He missed them by a good few inches, staring at the inert _buy'ce_.

"I sold a couple of you beskar heads a while back," he growled then, baring his fangs. "The worst deal of my life: I had to reimburse the customer for your 'lack of docility'".

Djarin clenched his jaw, but did not miss a step and merely pushed the bounty in front of him, with chained ghosts gliding through his mind in the pantomime of a march. He chased them away: they were too painful, and at the same time they could be mere projections of false hopes.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Lucky for Baath, he really needed those extra three hundred credits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are with the first real chapter!  
> I hope you enjoyed it and, as I said, feel free to point out any mistakes you should notice. I'm aware I'm waaay out of exercise with reverse translations :')
> 
> Anyway, the whole story will be organized into episodes, further divided into single parts. There will be eight episodes, just like the show, with several bounties and different PoVs – indicated by the symbols at the start of the chapter. Mudhorn is for Din, the Rebellion symbol is for Cara. And a couple more I won't spoil.  
> The titles will be either reminiscent of the show's or of Sergio Leone's movies, 'cause I mean, why not? The Mandalorian is basically a "Space Spaghetti Western" after all ♥
> 
> I will be using Mando'a words and phrases here and there, as you noticed in the prologue, but the meaning of the words should be understandable from the context, and I'll add notes where necessary. If you don't get it and it's not in the notes, it's purposefully left untranslated ;)


	3. The Bounty Hunter (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, folks!
> 
> Thank you for your support in the previous chapters: your feedback is vital and your kudos always manage to brighten my day ♥

Episode 1

**THE BOUNTY HUNTER**

Part II

**T** he New Republic Tax Collection Office lived up to its name in its being ridiculously tedious, as well as looking out of place in every corner of the Galaxy, no matter how civilized. Djarin could only call a paradox the fact that he had to go through a bureaucratic procedure and extricate himself among piles of old-fashioned flimsi printed in microscopic characters after having just risked his life among the slums of Agruss.

Luckily, Ikko was the one who had to take care of that dirty task, being an authorized Neo-Republican operative. Djarin officially did not exist, nor had he ever taken part in the bounty. It was a mere appearance issue that didn’t surprise him in the least: no newborn government would ever have openly availed itself of mercenaries, nor affiliated with the Bounty Hunters’ Guild. The same could be said for the Guild itself, as Karga vehemently liked to remind him after one glass of Nevarrian grog too many.

Djarin positioned himself beside the building's entrance, with a clear view on the street, and his back covered both from ambushes and the setting sun, still searing hot. The office facility was a squared-off, imposing, and overly clean allacrete block. Its artificially bright colors stood out among the other buildings, which were instead weatherworn by the fierce heat and smeared with exhaust fumes and graffiti. The New Republic's crest was imprinted in bright red above the entrance and instantly demanded attention with its halo of stars.

Djarin crossed his ankles and leaned against the wall, sliding the Amban from off his shoulder, then stared at the yellowish sky. The clouds lingering there were a product of the intense sultriness, rather than of the infrequent coming and going of spaceships. Traffic had dropped significantly since Zygerria had lost its primary source of income. The capital’s degradation was evident from the state of neglect of the royal ziggurats, now abandoned for years to the infestation of the once-well-kept gardens.

But he remembered the imperial Agruss – lavish, opulent, verdant, and he could not say that he missed seeing parades of slaves escorted by jailers who did not skimp on the use of electro-whips. The miasmas of those extinguished fires still rose here and there in the form of occasional, poisonous puffs like Baath.

He considered the trafficker's words and wondered how many Mandalorians had actually trod those streets, handcuffed and subjugated by shock-collars. Not many in the course of history, he supposed. But in the wake of the Great Purge – and now, after Nevarro’s bloodbath… but those were sterile questions he had better not dwell on. He had to focus on the ghosts of the present, not those of the past; ghosts that perhaps he could still reach and had not marched away yet.

At the moment, he was only quietly content at the thought that Baath would end up mining medical spice on Kessel for the Republic. He found a mirror of his own mood when Ikko boldly strode towards him with an undeniably pleased grin crossing her muzzle.

 _Nice shot_ , she barked, placing the bounty chip in his glove. Djarin accepted it with a short bow of his head, then critically examined the thin square of plastoid. New government, new currency: he’d have to get used to it.

"Thanks, Ikko," he said, fumbling in the pouch tied to his belt. “You have been very helpful. Here's your share," he concluded, pressing an exact quarter of the bounty into the Wookiee’s wide, calloused palm. Three hundred credits. She was already being paid by the Republic and he didn’t have to share anything – but he _wanted_ to and she had earned it.

Ikko widened her dark eyes in wonder at the sight of the small silver ingots. She threw a loud bellow of approval and replied by lowering both paws on Djarin's shoulders, in a pat so energetic that she almost threw him off his feet. She smiled, with a friendly grunt that seemed to blunt her fangs. _Until next time_.

He replied with another small bow of his head, sealing that wish for good. Then Ikko went on her own way, soon mingling with the colorful stream of people flowing through the streets of Agruss. She stayed in sight for a long time, bowcaster on her shoulder, soaring a good meter above the rest of the busy citizens who gave her way, until she disappeared around the first corner.

Djarin loosened his shoulders with a contracted twist and was grateful to the layer of solid beskar and bantha leather that took the worst of the Wookiee’s exuberance. He scanned the credit chip, more out of habit than to really make sure it had money on it, and calculated that it would be enough to cover fuel and supplies for at least a few days. He would have to put off the cleaning of the ventilation filters again, but he could always look for some smaller bounty or assignment to scrape some extra credits together and avoid plaguing the cockpit with fumes at every take-off.

Or, maybe, he could count on Motto's good heart...

He dropped the chip along with its traditional metal companions, walking towards the speeder parking lot, and shook that dangerous thought out of his head. Dangerous for him, for Motto, but especially for the Child. Heading back to Tatooine was less risky than returning to Nevarro, but there was a conspicuous amount of profiteers and opportunists in Mos Eisley, who would not take long to instantly recognized a certain Mandalorian who had killed off a Guild bounty hunter and a ex-Imp assassin.

His reputation often preceded him – he had gotten used to it, but now it was starting to become annoying and inappropriate. Sometimes, it seemed to him that having all that beskar was a catalyst for trouble, instead of a protection.

He quickened his pace, kicking up clouds of dust with his boots as he weaved through the crowd that, with the sun slowly setting, had returned to throng the streets. He wanted to leave that planet as soon as possible. The mere thought of having the Child near the markets, once teeming with creatures of all kinds put up for auction and annihilated by deprivations, was enough to make him impatient to get to the closest jumping point. The unrealistic possibility of that helpless creature - at least _usually_ helpless - confined in a cage like a pet monkey-lizard was enough to make his stomach churn.

The _Razor Crest_ was armored, enclosed in a private hangar shielded by durasteel doors, and the Zygerrian slave empire had now fallen along with the Star Destroyers on Jakku, but he had no intention of extending their stay in that ruined, _manda_ -forsaken place.

"You have any suggestion?"

The Child slowly blinked, staring at him from his pram with those liquid, sclera-free eyes that gave him an air of profound wisdom despite being just a baby. A _fifty-year-old_ baby. Djarin always kept that destabilizing detail on the sidelines, but it peeped out more starkly every now and then.

It was not uncommon to encounter much longer-lived species than humans, and he had dealt with enough Hutts to be well aware of his limited lifespan. But every time he found himself staring at that little green creature, he ended up wondering if, by chance, that baby was really more adult, intelligent, and capable than him. He was certainly more powerful: the shiny mudhorn emblem on his pauldron spoke volumes. Along with the very fact of him being still alive and not a charred corpse in a blasted Cantina.

The Child stared at him for a few more seconds, tilting his head as if he were peering inside him. It was perfectly possible. Then he pointed a sharp fingernail on the star map, with disturbing confidence and precision: _Nevarro_.

Djarin just shook his head, holding back a sigh and betraying a fleeting thought to Dune and Karga.

"No. We can't go back there. "

 _At home_ , he almost added, in a slip of the tongue.

The Child's ears went limp and he put on what looked a lot like a childish pout – something he wouldn't have thought odd on a three or four-year-old human, but that was out of place on the alien face of an impossibly old baby. The disappointment he emanated was clear, though, almost tangible and well-known to him.

_"Ruu ... why can't we?"_

_"Because there is no longer anyone waiting for you here. It is not home. It will never be such for you, ever again. Ke'taab, ad'ika. Ke'taab. "_

_Keep marching on_. Djarin tightened his palm on the hyperdrive knob. _Where, though?_

The Child lifted his finger from the map and went to squeeze with both hands the Mythosaur skull he wore around his neck, as if he was seeking reassurance – as Djarin himself had done so many years ago when he listened wide-eyed to the stories about those colossal creatures.

Soon, he felt a veil of calm lay on his shoulders like a second cloak. He wondered if it had surged from him, from the Child, or from some other mystical energy that meandered through the Galaxy.

He was beginning to sense, with a feeling terribly similar to anguish, that he knew his world much less than he himself or the Tribe had ever believed. Lately, he’d begun questioning everything he had always taken for granted. Even the _manda_ , that collectivity of people who had marched away and yet remained present, took on unknown and sometimes obscure shades when he observed the powers of the Child at work.

He sighed those thoughts away, scrolling the star map as he looked for their next safe harbor, despite even his certainties in that regard had become much more fragile. Nevarro, _home_ , had been safe. They certainly could not remain in the Zygerrian sector… so, another transgalactic journey along the Outer Rim was waiting for them. They had to conceal their tracks – as he’d grown used to do years ago, alone or otherwise.

The Child observed him, intently nibbling on a horn of the beskar Mythosaur. Djarin took the shiny pendant between two fingers, running his thumb gently over it, and the Child shifted his grip from the metal to his glove, making an almost silent sound as his lips parted in a smile. Djarin let him, as the Child quietly bit the hardened leather with his sharp teeth.

"Dantooine? Sullust? " Djarin listed aloud, without sparkling any reaction while he leafed through the map with his free hand. "Altora ... no, no altagaks hunting _ever_ again."

He shook his head and the Child mimicked him, more slowly, perhaps remembering the nasty wounds he had suffered on that occasion – wounds he had helped him to heal. The map began to frame the farthest sectors of the Galaxy, until it stopped on one of the many negligible and inhospitable planets at the Hydian Way's extreme offshoots. It felt _right_ , somehow.

"Awath?" he asked, shooting a glance at the Child, who stopped testing the tightness of his glove to stare at him. “Lava, volcanoes… and oceans. _Almost_ home."

He saw his huge green ears tilt a little as if intrigued, and felt the grip on his thumb tighten.

It was enough to push him to set the hyperdrive course towards Awath and prepare the _Crest_ for takeoff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Awath is a planet I invented from scratch since I needed a place with no connections to the canon/EU. I hope it sounds okay in English – it does in Italian, or at least so they told me :'D
> 
> Anyway, that's the end of the first episode, which was kind of a "pilot" for our adventure. Not much has happened, at least so it seems... but I guarantee you that some seeds have already been planted here and there, and will grow along with the story :)
> 
> Leave a comment if you like and let me know what you think of it! ♥


	4. Traces (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, but here we are again!
> 
> This is a... particular chapter, so to say, but I hope you'll enjoy it ♥  
> Thank you for your support and kudos in the previous chapters!
> 
> Original chapter here-> https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=3923213

Episode 2

**TRACES**

Part I

**Level 3147 of New Republic City, Coruscant, 9ABY**

There was a hint of rain in the underground air. Ruusaan felt its acrid notes take root at the back of her throat with every breath, despite the helmet. She held back a cough.

"We should take shelter."

She spoke in a neutral tone, but a fiber of impatience went to tense her voice as she stopped at the edge of a covered walkway, overlooking an angular and poorly maintained plaza. Bits of trash were tossed from side to side following the wind’s fickle and unpredictable gusts, which managed to creep into the slums following the updrafts.

"Scared of a little rain?"

Skull's heavy footsteps echoed behind her, covered the distance he had cautiously kept from her until now, and came to a halt beside her. His massive _beskar'gam_ made him even taller than he was, and he surpassed her by an entire helmet. The man planted his hands on his hips, statically observing the squalor in front of them.

"Yes, when it's _acid_ rain," she finally replied, not bothering to let out more than a vaguely irritated mutter.

She had the impression that’s not what her comrade meant, and she ignored yet another gibe aimed, she was sure, at her actual will to be there. The fact that his doubts in regard were legit only made her more susceptible. He heard him snort under his breath, noisily clearing his throat and then leaving the walkway’s shelter with military strides.

"Let’s hurry up, then, or you’ll risk ruining the brand-new paintjob," he said with undisguised sarcasm.

Ruusaan briefly considered biting him back, but her belligerent wave died out on the spot, quelled by her common sense. She ignored his implications and followed him closely. She barely managed to distinguish his broad, armored shoulders in the cavernous semi-darkness of the alleys. Clouds of gas and smog rumbled unnaturally above them, harbingers of the incoming caustic downpour.

Artificial lights flecked the black space above them and climbed the walls of the Well and skyscrapers, not unlike stars. The sky was a legend down there, and it was easy to imagine the inhabitants of the lower levels thinking of that swarm of flickering lights as stars in all respects, with easily identifiable constellations, revolutions and rhythms, useful in navigating the gloomy and perennial penumbra of Coruscant's bowels.

Masses of derelicts opened up for them as they passed, then closed again like quicksand behind them. They both had given up their discretion the moment they set foot in the sub-levels: down there, even two Mandalorians lost all attractiveness and peculiarities, compared to the thousands of far more bizarre and feared species that habitually frequented them. The rumors would still spread, it couldn not be avoided, but they would hardly reach the surface. Ruusaan hoped so. Otherwise, she would have had yet one more reason feeding her hatred for Coruscant. She quickened her pace and nudged Skull, who glanced quickly over her shoulder without objecting.

They reached their destination in a few more minutes: the Cantina was advertised by a light-pink, dying neon sign.

"The Krayt’s Pearl?" Ruusaan asked, incredulously pointing at the Aurebesh and Huttese characters blinking out of sync next to the half-electrocuted shape of a sand dragon.

"Nex shows good taste, as always ..." the other shrugged, halting at the top of the rusty, rickety stairs leading to the underground entrance. " _Osik_ , it's even worse than what he told me."

His armored boots clanked on each of the seven steps, then landed with a splash in the sewage stagnating below street level. Ruusaan shook her head as he turned to look at her, impatient, as the first drops of corrosive rain sizzled harmlessly on both _beskar'gam_ , chipping away at the paint and uncovering the leaden metal below. She resolved to follow him into what definitely looked like a womprat trap.

" _This_ is what happens when you trust an Ubese," she scolded him, once they entered the place that did honor its shabby facade, revealing an even more neglected interior.

She could feel the stickiness of the floor under her soles, and the fumes of cheap alcohol mingled with those of too many bodies crammed into a confined space. Agonizing strobes cast intermittent fantasies of color, following the rhythm of the deafening _glimmik_ music, and refracted on the tiny, translucent Krayt pearls mounted along the edge of the counter at the far end – they _had_ to be fake. Ruusaan hoped they were. A couple of poles hosted two Twi'lek go-go-dancers, who entertained the clients with a bored expression, completed the setting.

She hadn't expected anything different from Coruscant’s dungeons and, indeed, she had seen much worse.

"We’re not exactly spoiled for choice," Skull finally grumbled, making his way through the crowd of drunken Weequays gathered at the entrance. They were singing – _groaning_ – some drinking song of which she was glad to understand less than half of the slurred words.

They quickly found a place at a free booth. Or rather, they took control over it after driving two tipsy Ithorians away with a single, cold gaze masked by the visor and their hands that went to casually brush the holster of their respective blasters. They sat down on the unpadded bench, silently facing each other. He held his palms placed parallel on the top in plastoid, while she put her intertwined hands in front of her. Some credits placed at the edge of the table, and immediately collected by the waiter on duty, paid for their occupation even without having to order something. In any case, given the dire hygienic situation, Ruusaan would have rather drank water from the Kelita.

"You should’ve mentioned that you had a problem coming to Galactic City," Skull said after a few minutes of reverberating bass, luckily muffled by the noise reduction of their helmets.

"New Republic," she corrected him, without moving a muscle.

His riled up grunt rang directly in her ears.

"Imperial, Republic... the right name should be _Taung_ City, but nice names will just make it a tarted-up cesspool," he almost finished talking in a growl. It was one of those bursts of revanchism that sounded out of place, coming from the mouth of someone who was always ready to criticize the past of anyone who had worn the blue.*

Ruusaan thanked their _buy'cese_. As Mandalorians, they gave the constant idea of taciturn and shady warriors, even when gathered in a group around a table, despite there often being heated and sometimes hilarious conversations going on on the private communication channel, betrayed only by this or that unrestrained gesture. In that particular case, Skull and her neither had a friendly demeanor, sitting in that cubicle at the back of the Cantina, apparently silent and intent on glaring into the visors of their helmets, nor was their conversation so cheerful.

“Regardless of the name, I want to get out of this pit, and the whys don’t concern you. Pray that your friend arrives on time. "

Skull made an infinitesimal pause: a fraction of an instant, just enough to suggest that, in his opinion, that reason concerned him _all right_. But, when he spoke, his tone was low and scraping as ever:

"I do, and I also pray that he will grant us the grace of speaking in Basic. I got a migraine last time. "

"Then be ready for a bactaspirin."

Skull turned his head, taking to observe the commotion in the room without answering back and cutting off the conversation. He seemed lost in his own reflections, which was rather unusual, and even more so when you considered the chaos in which they were immersed, which barely allowed her to hear her own thoughts.

"You're beating around the rancor bramble," he teased after a while, drumming his gloved fingers on the table in a slight sign of impatience.

Ruusaan got on the defensive before she could stop herself:

"You would too, if you were in my _beskar’gam_."

"I could _never_ be in your _beskar’gam_. Don’t be ridiculous," was the immediate and contemptuous reply. “And you owe me some answers. Remember your rank."

"My _rank?_ " she repeated, now halfway between indignation and bewilderment. She made sure her mocking snort was audible. "You still speak like an Imperial."

"And you speak like a Separatist."

Ruusaan allowed herself a slight, snappy tilt of the head backwards, highlighting the shadow of a sardonic laughter that tainted her voice.

"Oh, that’s an insult I haven't heard in a while," she said, squeezing her intertwined fingers together and bending slightly toward Skull to urge his reply.

"I'm still waiting," he just said, bluntly.

He went back to staring at her, slowly turning his head, with the violent lights reflecting on the shiny helmet, looking now ridiculous, when the hues turned to pink, now threatening when they sank into deep reds, absorbed by the gray-blue of the armor. She remained silent, denying him an answer for the moment and denying it definitively when she finally glimpsed their contact, unmistakable in his squared and boxy headgear. The Ubese approached them cautiously and threatening at the same time, one hand tightening the strap of the Verpine rifle slung over his shoulder.

Ruusaan was about to welcome him in the same way, preparing to flex his hand to hold the vibroblade hidden in her bracer, but stiffened when he felt Skull's hand block the gesture, tightening just above the wrist guard. Under different circumstances, she would not have hesitated to take advantage of his grip and yank him to give him a nice “Keldabe kiss” straight on the helmet ... but they could not afford to fight like teenage _Mando’ade_ and spook a susceptible informant after months of dead calm in their searches. So she just stiffened her muscles and reserved the headbutt for a more favorable moment.

"You can’t give your _beskar'gam_ a coat of paint and believe you can also change factions and ideals with it," Skull hissed, with a dry nod to her shiny silver layer, especially the one above the pauldron. "This discussion is only on hold, Motir, and I'm not as understanding as my wife."

She broke free with an angry snort, ignoring the empty threat and then planting her fist on the table to regain stability. She ignored her comrade and addressed the newcomer as if nothing had happened, activating the external speaker:

"You’re late."

Nex looked at them, one after the other, then garbled a brusque greeting in his sputtering tongue, rendered more robotic by his helmet, and elicited Skull's half-annoyed sigh.

Ruusaan clenched her fist, with the sudden and disturbing perception of the millions of tons of durasteel, darkness and foundations weighing upon them. Again, she had to tell herself that there were no longer any cruisers intent on bombing the city, nor a bloody mission looming around the corner, nor anyone waiting for her at home, risking to never see her again. She told herself that, and felts the pressure all the same.

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some clarifications about the chapter:  
> -Ruusaan is an OC of mine... kinda. Actually, she exists already in the show, and I built upon the very few information we have in regard, but 99% of what I say about her are my headcanons. The next chapter should shed some light on her. [The Mythosaur skull identifies her PoVs.]  
> -Skull is not an OC, just an existing character whose name I have temporarily changed (this *will* have an explanation, don't worry), and who you might be able to recognize if you squint hard enough.
> 
> *wear the blue is a reference to the Death Watch  
> *The beskar'gam is the traditional Mandalorian armor. Buy'cese is the plural of buy'ce, "helmet", already mentioned in the previous chapters. Osik is an expletive In Mando'a.  
> *The Kelita river flows nearby Keldabe, the Mandalorian former capital on Mandalore. A "Keldabe kiss" is basically a headbutt, its meaning depending on context (and its force of course).
> 
> [SPOILER ALERT FOR SEASON 2]  
> I know the mention of Krayt dragons might seem like a nod to the new episode... but it isn't. This chapter actually dates back to July (at least, the Italian version does) and I mentioned the Krayts for the specific purpose of introducing them and their pearls for "future use"... let's say I happened to predict a couple of things and I will be forced to restructure an entire episode because of Season 2. Thank you, Favreau! :'D  
> [END OF SPOILER]


	5. Traces (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the amazing feedback on the previous chapters ♥
> 
> Things are probably gonna confuse you here, but I assure you that you'll get all your answers!  
> Bear with me, it's gonna be a long story :')

Episode 2

**TRACES**

Part II

**Level 3147 of New Republic City, Coruscant, 9ABY**

**J** ust as many Krayt’s pearls hunters usually did, Ruusaan and Skull left the namesake Cantina clutching nothing but a handful of Tatooinian sand. Luckily, they also had all their guts still into place – no small feat even after encountering an Ubese.

Skull was simmering with suppressed rage like a barrel of pressurized rhydonium. Ruusaan half-expected to see billows of incandescent smoke rising from the helmet’s vents and armor joints. As he climbed up the stairs, he stomped his feet on the steps with such force that she feared the whole structure would collapse. A couple of startled, unseen critters scurried away. She went up the stairs more calmly than he did and reached him at street level, under the flickering pool of light from one of the suspended streetlamps. A few steps further, the rest of the alley faded into the greenish, damp underground darkness.

"A meager hunt," she said when she stood to his side. He just let out an indistinct groan of expletives in Mando'a. He seemed to have decided to postpone their confrontation, at least for the moment, and she couldn't help but agree. Even though she still felt the urgency of that missed headbutt prodding her forehead. “Did you really rely on him that much? I mean, on Nex?"

"What do you think?" he snapped, without turning to look at her. “He’d worked with Boushh, he had a contract with the Hutts, he was a regular on Tatooine, and he said that them two were on good terms, even after Carkoon. A bunch of _osik_... I should have known. He was too eager to share his intel. I shoulda called his bluffing," he muttered between his teeth.

Ruusaan slightly tilted her head sideways, staring at him from below at that atypical admission of guilt. She saw him brusquely raise his helmet’s pointed chin in a contemptuous move, before heading on the double towards the exit of that claustrophobic alley.

"At least we know for sure he's not in a sarlacc's stomach," she dropped in, catching up with him without any rush and forcing him to slow down accordingly.

She was testing the reins of his patience, but she didn't care much. Nothing really mattered, except getting out of that sinkhole and seeing the sky again.

"We didn't need that _di'kut_ Ubese to figure it out," Skull argued, with a growling sigh. “You really think a Fett would let himself be killed off like that? Half the Galaxy knows the bastard is up and about, and in business like before."

The drop of resentment in his voice was quite audible and merged with something that closely resembled its quieter companion: regret. For a moment she thought she saw the _old_ Skull – back when he didn’t force others to call him like that – and the oblong golden hexagon on the forehead of his blue _buy'ce_ seemed to become more evident, albeit faded.

Despite their differences, she couldn't blame him: she felt the same, caustic mix of emotions when thinking about Boba Fett, and how she’d seen a fellow _Mando’ad_ marching to the wrong side of the war. She knew that a fragment of her and Skull would have preferred to see him liquefied by the sarlacc’s gastric juices.

And another fragment, perfectly fitting the first one, would have liked to see and cling onto Jango's faded reflection. At some point during the war, they had begun wondering if it ever existed at all. Boba was one mess of a Mandalorian, if even a Mandalorian at all, according to voices and whispers traveling through the Galaxy. But they’d learned not to trust any rumors. They had to find out for themselves where the legendary bounty hunter had put his loyalty.

And orders were orders after all. It was easier to obey if you sprinkled them with some hope.

"We still don’t know which _kind_ of business."

Skull inhaled sharply through his nose, halting back his answer. Ruusaan appreciated how he was managing to maintain a moderate volume of voice while wearing the helmet, even though the urge to yell into her ears was all too clear from the contractions she felt in his words.

"Can’t you really imagine it?” he scoffed, and then went on without waiting for her reply: “Anyway, that was what Nex was supposed to tell me for sure."

“Of course. And you even _paid_ him."

"We had a deal. And at least the information on Gideon seems legit. Hope so at least," he puffed out, with clear disappointment. "Now let's get out of the way before that _di’kut_ decides to sell us out to some beskar hunter. I'd hate to leave more traces in this dumpster."

They carried on in silence, until they stopped on an isolated platform overlooking the Well, waiting for the repulsorcraft that would take them to the upper levels. The platform was deserted, like most of the others that could be seen around the Well's outline. She could only make out a few faint, slowly flashing lights suspended in the dark. No one approached them, and a couple of half-hidden shadows slipped away as they arrived. Not many people used public transport down there, with all the best reasons, but even a desperate in withdrawal from death sticks would have thought twice before attacking two Mandalorians. Thus, it was actually the safest means of moving around for them.

Ruusaan cocked her neck back, following the sheer walls of the Well that seemed to converge into a roof of solid darkness. Somewhere, they had to leave room for a single, imperceptible gray pinhead, but they were too down below for their eyes to see it, even through their night visor. But she knew it was there, and that she would soon see it again – the same mantra she had told herself so many years ago. She felt sick to her core, thinking back about those moments.

"I've lost comrades here," she uttered without moving a muscle, face to face with the darkness. He heard Skull holding back a quiet, startled reply. “Warriors of the Watch whom I had to leave behind during the Battle of Coruscant. Here's your _explanation_ ,” she concluded hastily.

Skull fell silent, a pause that might have hidden surprise, or a simple attempt at suppressing old grudges that would risk to harshly shape his next words.

"You were here that day," he said then, slowly, and his voice seemed to drop an octave, betraying all his years. "And not on _Manda’yaim_. Not at the Siege."

She just nodded silently. The Siege of Mandalore lived only in the tales of the few who had survived. She had been down here, in Coruscant, waiting for an Order that tasted like revenge and which she had only partly fulfilled. Sometimes she was glad she had no memories of her own about the Night of a Thousand Tears, a massacre that had only been the start of their defeat. Other times, she would have gladly exchanged those memories with the remorse of having deserted and left her comrades at the mercy of the Empire – still the Republic back then – after they’d been exploited like crippled racing fathiers sent to slaughter.

“I made a choice that day, just like you did. I chose loyalty to Mandalore and forsake the Watch. And that's why you should trust me. "

Skull’s posture stiffened at those words. He folded his hands behind his back, with his gaze fixed on the incoming repulsorcraft.

"I can't," he declared, making her turn her head abruptly. "That symbol you wore cannot be erased." He gestured with his chin to her right pauldron, where the silhouette of a swooping _jai'galaar_ had once stood out. Only a thin layer of silver and yellow hid it now. “But _Kat'ika_ trusts you. And I trust her,” he concluded, stepping onto the suspended platform without another word.

Ruusaan followed him with a moment's delay and sat down, absorbing his companion's words as they began their slow ascent to the higher levels. They would need to make at least a dozen switches until they got to see the light again, and she welcomed that moment of reflection, taking in the stale wind of the depths rustling beyond the helmet.

Skull hadn't offered her a true "white field", like the one that had welcomed her decades ago when she had first donned the helmet, starting her life from scratch. The one he gave her was more of a concession, a commitment not to dwell too much on the past.

After all those years, Ruusaan, who could barely accept that gesture coming from herself, found relief in accepting it from someone else.

The _Cornucopia_ , in its being little more than a few metal plates held together by rust, affection, and goodwill, succeeded very well in its attempt to disguise itself among the hundreds of other freighters and transport aircrafts parked in the sub-surface hangar. Ruusaan would never rethink her conviction, proven right over and over again: the ships of their previous Republic were a trump card that allowed them to go unnoticed, at most earning the curiosity of some nostalgic pilot, but certainly not the attention of the authorities.

Skull and her relaxed in sync as soon as the access ramp snapped shut, sealing them off from the external world. Their armor could be a trusted protection, but adding a blaster-proof hull to it could only improve the sense of instinctive security it instilled in them.

Skull took off his helmet with a snort, pinning it against his side and running a hand through his half-shaved hair, which was beginning to grow back on the sides, fading into a reddish-gray shade. Ruusaan followed suit, shaking her head and releasing her mane of tightly-compressed braids, glad to breathe relatively cleaner air than in the sub-levels. She filled her lungs with it before speaking:

"Do you think we should... you know, _sort out_ the intel?" she asked, clenching her hands on the silver beskar of her helmet, striped with a single yellow, V-shaped decoration at the top.

“I don't see why. Even if we lie, and report that Fett is a shapeless, semi-digested mush on Tatooine, he’d still show up somewhere sooner or later. If he ever decides to come out of the shadows, he'll do it with great fanfare. And then, _Kat’ika_ will rip our heads off," he replied pragmatically, placing his helmet on the dashboard and taking his place in the pilot’s seat.

Ruusaan joined him the co-pilot’s one, stretching one leg and placing the heel of her boot on the control panel. She got the evil eye from him, but not a direct reproach. The frown etched between Skull’s brows didn't seem to be aimed at her anyway.

"I don't like Boba either," she said bluntly, as he began the take-off procedures with the clockwork swiftness of someone who had spent more time in a cockpit than on the ground.

She saw him as he slightly parted his lips, as if to speak, and then tighten them again in an involuntary gesture, usually hidden by the visor. It was easy to let such reactions slip, outside the beskar. As he activated the engines in a clicking chorus of levers and buttons, her persistent gaze finally led him to voice out his thoughts:

“Nobody likes him. And I still think it's an idiotic idea. That _shabuir_ is not worthy of becoming..."

"I thought there were _ranks_ , here," Ruusaan promptly cut him off, this time with a half-smile to soften the edge in her voice. “And rules. You should know the Six Actions by heart since you were... what, five? Am I wrong? "

He rolled his eyes briefly, in a gesture that made him look much younger than his years. A remnant of his not very accommodating temperament, easy to anger, and only partially dampened by age.

"I can follow my _Mand'alor_ and still consider her decisions foolish."

Ruusaan gave him a sideways nod, indicating that she had nothing to object. Anyway, she was not about to meddle in husband-and-wife business.

" _Kat'ika_ must have been glad when you told her so," she still said, and the smile pressed more lively against her lips.

" _Wayii,_ she was. Actually, we ended up almost knifing each other about it… but we had worse fights, and with no armor on,” he said quietly amused, as he took the commands and carefully moved the _Cornucopia_ among other spacecrafts, towards the covered take-off ramp. Then he let out a half sigh, more like a soft cough. “I do not agree with what she plans... but I try to understand her, Motir. Giving Boba a chance is like giving it to Jango, in a way. "

“She has no reason to feel guilty. Jango chose his path and she wasn't even born when Galidraan happened."

"Neither was Boba, for that matter... but that's how it works," he shrugged.

Ruusaan held back a frustrated reply. That was _exactly_ how it worked. The past had long shadows. It was impossible to escape them, even for those who had never seen or known the ones who had cast them. But it was always better than being utterly unaware of living in the shadow of someone else's deeds and mistakes. It was something she was absolutely sure of.

"Speaking of which," Skull startled her as they flew down the exit tunnel, flashing with signal lights, "do _you_ need to sort out some intel?"

Ruusaan stiffened, clenching her hands on her arms, and felt the urge to put back her _buy'ce_ on, even though she knew it would’ve counted as a confession. She knew she'd betrayed herself during the meeting with Nex, and that she had spent the second half of it in a gloomy silence. She still had far too many thoughts and conjectures flooding her head.

"Meaning?"

She evaded the question as they accelerated through the red-and-blue streaked darkness, until they leaped out in the open into the gray, traffic-congested sky of Coruscant. They queued at one of the automatic lanes headed for the nearest jump point, and Skull stayedsilent until he took his hands off the controls, but kept his gaze fixed beyond the permaglass windshield. They tailed a Mon Calamari freighter that took up half the view alone.

" _Meaning_ , this ‘Mandalorian from Nevarro’," he winked, so falsely neutral it sounded ridiculous. " _Meaning_ , yet another problem for us."

"He did us a favor."

Skull hardly refrained himself from rolling his eyes again.

"A _favor?_ He cut off the trail and _definitely_ increased our problems. Maybe that _chakaar_ put his hands on the Darksaber! And knowing bounty hunters..."

"Knowing _the Tribe_ , if he really _is_ one of them, he would not even know what in the Galaxy he’s holding," she cut him off, clouding over at the very thought and even more in catching her companion's scorn. "Worst case scenario, he'll sell it away to the best bidder."

" _Kandosii_ , then! I forgot you liked to sympathize with groups of fanatical pseudo-Mandalorians," he teased her, undeniably accusatory, but with one less tinge of venom than usual. He sighed. “Look, they’re weirdos, but they’re still our _vode_. They’re no Death Watch.”

Ruusaan didn’t say anything, but those words felt like some sort of apology. Or condolences.

“I know your division used to hang around with Nevarro’s Tribe every now and then… they’re secretive, and it would help if you happened to know the Mandalorian who shot Gideon down. Or any way to get in touch with him or her, maybe?"

"Maybe. All the Tribes keep to themselves and are well hidden away, but I did have some… contacts back there,” she forced herself to say, her throat suddenly dry.

He caught Skull's clear and less pointed gaze in her peripheral vision. The news on the Tribe's fate had not been exhaustive, but Nex had told them enough to make the blood freeze in her veins. Now she bore in her uncovered eyes the mark of that creeping anguish. And she still didn’t know with clarity what she’d lost.

" _Aliit?_ " he simply asked, in a low, almost delicate voice.

"Not exactly," she murmured, as they flew over Galactic City's labyrinth of skyscrapers – it would always be called Galactic City, for her – with too many memories knocking on her door.

_"You’re coming back, right?"_

_He asks without looking at her, twirling the cartridge case of a whistling bird in his fingers, sitting cross-legged on the forge floor with his dark eyes intent on his task. His eyebrows slightly furrow as he assembles the weapons, one after the other, swiftly thanks to his still small hands. He's a quick learner and a methodic worker already. Concentration draws a dimple at the corner of his mouth. Ruusaan has to force her breath to escape her throat. He looks so much like_ them _that it splits her lungs in two._

 _“As always. You wait for me here and listen to Bes._ Jate? _"_

_The background of hammering and rhythmic metallic clangs stops for an instant. Bes*, barely visible beyond the bright blue of the flames, gives them both a quick glance – a confirmation, a reassurance, a reprimand, with her it's always hard to tell – then gets back to her work, the spiked helmet casting sharp shadows on the forge’s walls._

_"_ Jate _. I'll wait for you,” he says, shifting his red hood to fully uncover his eyes. He looks at her right beyond the beskar, barely lifting one corner of his lips in an adult smile. "_ Oya manda _," he adds, with a tremble of uncertainty in his voice, chased away by his intense stare. It’s is a greeting, but also a wish, a hope, and a not entirely appeased fear._

_Ruusaan feels Bes' gaze upon herself. That second fraction of silence, this time accusatory, weighs on her between the blows of the hammer. But she replies anyway, affectionately pinching her boy's chin between two gloved fingers, in what may not be the last time._

_"_ Oya manda, ad'ika _."_

Ruusaan let out a slow breath, eyes lost in the hazy sky of Coruscant.

"Let's just say that bonds always complicate things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bes is a made-up name for Nevarro's Armorer
> 
> So, yep, they're after Boba. Nope, all this was written way before Chapter 9, so there will be differences, even though I've guessed a couple things here and there – and tragically missed others. And, yep, Ruusaan is who you think she is, and all her background is pure headcanon&conjectures of mine. I hope you'll like her as much as I love writing her (and mini-Mando♥)
> 
> By the way, I've noticed the fandom is very knowledgeable about Mandalorians, Mando'a, and Mando culture, so I won't be putting all the notes I usually put in the Italian version. Let me know if I should put more though :)


	6. Traces (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This couple of chapters will be a bit "explanatory" since I'm not following neither the series nor Rebels/EU (though I love them all to bits). It's a fair mash-up of a lot of different sources (especially for everything that concerns Boba), and I hope you'll like it :)
> 
> Thank you all for the amazing feedback! You always make my day ♥

Episode 2

**TRACES**

Part III

**Concord Dawn, Nite Owls' Stronghold, 9ABY**

**C** oncord Dawn's shattered horizon bit the sky with its sharp outline, punctuating it with debris eternally floating in its orbit.

Almost twenty years had passed since the last time she had set foot on that planet, and Ruusaan almost expected to find it intact, as if the endless wars could heal the deep bite that had chipped a quarter of the hemisphere away, instead of making her surface increasingly barren and pockmarked by battles.

A cluster of asteroids collided in the distance, each following its new trajectory like pool balls and creating a small rain of fragments large enough to devastate a house. The constant pattering against the thick transparisteel windows was a wearing background to her already tense nerves.

Skull seemed to share her mood, judging by the way he kept pointing the viewer towards the high ceiling of the covered parade ground, rhythmically clenching his gloved fists at his hips, as if he missed having the grip on the handle of a vibroblade or the butt of a blaster. They walked on, marching in sync along the large window scratched by the weather and meteor showers, overlooking the arid, reddish expanses split by deep canyons. Two violet moons began to rise beyond the asteroid field, creating a ghostly halo in the indigo evening sky. Ruusaan felt a touch of nostalgia when she gazed at them.

Other Mandalorians in full _beskar'gam_ crossed the vast space from time to time, alone, in pairs or in little groups, following almost unconsciously the lines of the elongated hexagon that decorated the polished metal floor. It gave off cold, gray-blue reflections. Ruusaan pursed her lips in disdain, as every time she walked in there: Sundari, their most recent and frowned upon capital, left an unmistakable legacy in that aseptic and polygonal facility. It had nothing to do with the humble, chaotic, yet solid appearance of the ancient city of Keldabe.

Right at the end of the parade ground, half a dozen young Corps warriors were practicing the _Dha Werda Verda_ under the guidance of an older _alor_. The clear and rhythmic sound of the armors' metal plates colliding with each other echoed around, accompanying that ferocious battle dance. Even now that she was at rest, it made her blood boil in her veins as if she were on the front line with a flaming _sen'tra_ on ther shoulders and the Mandalorian war horn bellowing in the background. He saw Skull as he slowed down and looked briefly at his comrades, and knew it had the same, galvanizing effect on him.

"Do you need a warm-up round?" she asked, as they reached one of the two staircases that, on each side of the hall, led to the upper U-shaped walkway.

She heard the slight _click_ of the private comlink channel, and her companion's voice rang directly in her ear:

"Maybe later, if we survive."

Ruusaan let out a soft, amused snort, but did not reply, aware that their _Mand'alor_ would not have been much more enthusiastic than when they had spoken to her a few days earlier via hololink, on their way back from Coruscant. Afterwards, Skull had been so upset that he rambled on for entire minutes about how having the _Mand'alor_ as his wife was a thorn in the _shebs_ , and that at that point he was _this close_ to prefer Boba as a chief. Only later had he seemed to realize who he was talking to, and had cut off his invective by giving her a look halfway between hostile and embarrassed. Ruusaan had just smiled – _gloated_ –, then swore on his own _buy'ce_ not to report everything to _Kat'ika_ \- so as to "not compromise their teamwork", of course.

Skull had opened a chink of his _beskar'gam_ to trust, while they traveled back: he was one of those people who hated and loved with no half measures, but willing to quickly move from one extreme to the other if he was given a fair reason. In this case, it had cost him to do so – it was obvious from the way he talked to her in a brusque, blunt tone, as if on autopilot. But, since her confession in Galactic City, he seemed at least to _try_ and dampen his grudges, as opposed to the open contempt he used to show around her, those few times they had been forced to interact.

Ruusaan couldn't actually blame him. She could glimpse the signs that the Watch had left on her too. What happened on Coruscant only made them more evident. Later, during the long hours of hyperspace travel, describing him every scratch and scar had come as a natural consequence. She had felt the urge to underline how similar they were, and how the marks engraved in their beskar looked alike. Skull had listened in silence, barely nodding, albeit with the dark eyes of someone who still feels the specter of the Empire upon him. He blamed himself just as much as he blamed her.

That was exactly her _vod's_ problem: he's never admit how similar they were, or even how similar her and his wife were. But he could still carry the octagonal symbol of Concord Dawn's Protectors with pride, while she had angrily scrapped the _jai'galaar_ from her pauldron - and at times she could still feel its claws in her flesh. It was true: a coat of paint would never be enough to erase it. But now, perhaps, Skull would haveat least respected her choice of color, and what commitment it represented: silver, for redemption.

They crossed the walkway, stepped through the double fire door placed in its center, bearing the effigy of a Mythosaur, and entered the command room. It was deserted, if not for two unmistakable figures in full _beskar'gam_ quietly chatting in the privacy of their helmets, right in front of the control panels and devices.

Ordo, Nite Owls' second lieutenant, turned to face them first, his battered red-blood armor giving off gloomy reflections at the flashing radars beside him. He then looked at their _Mand'alor_ again, nodded once, and immediately took his leave. He nodded again in their direction as he walked past them, taciturn as he always was, and left the room with a swift gait, made more swaggering by the _kama_ hanging from his waist. The door closed behind him with a hiss. The other, smaller figure took off the helmet.

"I was expecting you days ago."

Bo-Katan turned towards them, with a glint of discontent in her green eyes, the helmet tucked between arm and hip. She stepped away from the console, planting herself in front of them with the megalithic sheer size of Keldabe's cliffs, despite being shorter than both herself and Skull.

"The _Cornucopia_ is no longer in top-shape as she used to be," Ruusaan sighed. "We had to stop over on Ithor to get her back on her feet."

The other woman slightly raised an eyebrow, a clear sign that her inclination to scrap that ship was increasing day by day, but she held back any comment. She turned to Skull instead, rose on her toes to fill the height gap between them, and briefly rested her bare forehead against his helmet's. Ruusaan looked away, not wanting to pry in the intimacy of the moment. Then the _Mand'alor_ returned to her usual composure.

Skull emitted a sound that sounded amused, then proceeded to remove his helmet as well; Ruusaan followed suit, shaking her head to free the mane of short braids that were annoyingly stuck together.

"We thought we'd find you in a bad mood," the man smiled, summoning a rare light to tame his fierce light-blue eyes.

Bo-Katan repressed a smile, which tried to emerge spontaneously in seeing her husband's face again, and sank into the darker expression she had greeted them with.

"I am. And not just because of the poor results on Coruscant,” she added, her voice sharp and clear again, ready to cut with words.

"I wouldn't call them _poor_ ," Skull objected, going back to his usual, hard-edged demeanor. "Did Ordo bring bad news?" he asked then, with a nod in the direction in which the other Mandalorian had disappeared.

"He brought _news_."

Bo-Katan evaded the question by taking a half step back toward the window, on which a map of that sector was projected. Flashing blue lights indicated the usual squadron of _Kom'rk_ fighters patrolling Concord Dawn and its moons... only, they seemed to be heading for the jump point. Skull followed them with his eyes, frowning, but said nothing: he was usually the captain of the reconnaissance patrol. Bo-Katan intercepted his eye.

"One thing at a time, Fenn," he tamed him, pronouncing his name with that particular intonation that wavered between the commanding voice of his _Mand'alor_ and the not much softer tone of his wife.

Ruusaan, as always when he heard him being addressed like that, could not shake off a sense of weirdness. She had always known him as Skull, a nickname reminiscent of his squadron from the Republic's old days, and, although she had long known his real name, he'd always remained Skull for her. And he was just fine with that. After all, Bo-Katan was the only person who could call him otherwise without risking a violent Keldabe kiss.

Right then, the former Protector pursed his lips, and his wrinkles deepened. He didn't reply, but his hard eyes clearly communicated his unwillingness to let the matter go.

"Now, I'd be eager to know why, in almost six months of searching, you haven't been able to find even a _shred_ of trail on Boba Fett," the _Mand'alor_ continued, turning towards her this time.

Ruusaan just squeezed her fingers on the edge of her _buy'ce_ , realizing that the pleasantries of close-knit comrades in arms were over. She straightened her chin, staring into those bright green eyes tarnished by battles and too many years spent in fighting them.

"I'd reckon we brought you more than a trail on him."

"Really? 'Boba Fett is not dead'?" said the woman, suppressing a sardonic smile. “Great news indeed. I could have asked the first Hutt passing through and receive the same answer."

“Actually, we know at least that he cut every tie with Tatooine. Predictably," Ruusaan added, to dampen her irony when she met the stinging glance of her _Mand'alor_. "We still know with absolute certainty that he is alive, now."

"Nex is a _di'kut_ , but he knows the bounty-hunting world like the back of his greedy hand. It seems that this time he's back for real and that he is not just another idiot walking around in a green _beskar'gam_ ," said Skull, firmly, and unexpectedly in her support. "Better a single certainty than a thousand rumors and Cantina chatter."

"True," Bo-Katan conceded, pursing her lips in a thin white line. "Any idea about his affiliations? Or where he is, maybe? "

Ruusaan just slightly snapped her head sideways, in an evasive _who knows?_ , the same she would've done with her helmet on.

"Probably backstreet people. Nex mentioned some contacts on Nar Shaddaa... if it's not the Hutts, maybe he dug up some remnants of the Black Sun or Hoxian Brood,” Skull unconvincingly said, clearing his throat.

Bo-Katan frowned restlessly: the wrinkles on her forehead became more evident, outlining in high relief decades of worry and responsibility, the same ones that streaked her short red hair with gray. She inhaled deeply from his nose and placed the helmet on the console, tightly crossing her hands behind her back.

"You clearly have a suspicion," she caught them red-handed, without the bat of an eye. "You want to voice them out?"

The sharp mark that slashed one of her cheekbones seemed to deepen and redden.

Ruusaan held back the sidelong glance she wanted to give Skull - who, with every minute he passed on Concord Dawn, was ever less Skull and ever more Fenn Rau, and who had now assumed an almost swashbuckling posture, reminiscent of the times when he used to fly in those asteroid-dotted skies. Now, he kept his gaze fixed on those same asteroids beyond the window.

 _Of course_ they had suspicions. They'd been easily brought up once they managed to put aside their personal disagreements to talk about what, exactly, they'd just discovered about Boba Fett. They'd spent half their forced night on Ithor digging up buried pasts and events neither of them liked to remember. The Battle of Coruscant, the Night of a Thousand Tears, the Great Purge. All Mandalorian blood that, drop by drop, had formed a raging vermilion river.

The Nevarro massacre - which had been depriving her of sleep for months now - was just yet another stream. And the hand behind it was always the same, even if it wore different gloves.

Once expressed aloud, that suspicion had seemed to solidify in midair between them two, in a crystallized stormy cloud impossible to ignore. Neither of them wanted to break the news to Bo-Katan, knowing how it would destroy her opinion of the legendary bounty hunter's moral integrity. She swallowed a bitter mouthful, before speaking:

"There is the concrete possibility that Fett went back to working for the Empire."

 _Empire_ , she said, point blank. Not "opponents", nor "remnants", nor "survivors". She threw that word on the discussion table, around which everyone had kept tiptoeing since Jakku. At that point, it made no more sense ignoring the bantha in the room, as the New Republic had decided to do.

Bo-Katan predictably shook her head, but nothing more. However, she cast a glance towards the door, and Ruusaan felt a knot in her stomach, with a deadly familiar grip that she hadn't felt since Coruscant. Ordo, she realized with a peak of alarm, had not brought mere "news".

"He might be working for Gideon, then?" the _Mand'alor_ asked through clenched teeth as if she were biting his name just by saying it.

A subtle vibration made her scarred cheek tremble. It had tensed now, as if she still felt the lightsaber that had slashed it.

“Looks like that _chakaar_ is dead. On Nevarro,” Skull said, equally tense, his tone cloaked in a veil of burning rage.

He was visibly holding back the urge to approach his wife, in a situation in which they were not spouses, but rather _Mando'ade_ bound by a hierarchy. Bo-Katan, unexpectedly broke out in a joyless, metallic chuckle.

"Information seems to travel slowly in the Core... Gideon is alive and well," she said gravely, turning all the way to the window with the rigid movement of a protocol droid. "And, apparently, he is determined to complete the work he begun on Mandalore."

"What did Ordo discover?" Skull, who came without difficulty to the same conclusion as Ruusaan, pressed her.

Bo-Katan took a deep breath, and the metal pauldrons of her _beskar'gam_ followed the movement - one anthracite black, one blue like the rest of the armor, where the white Nite Owl's outline stood out.

“It looks like Onderon is in turmoil. A 'warlord' took control of the capital Iziz a few months ago... there have been violent clashes, and Gerrera loyalists put up a resistance in record time. It all happened quietly, so much so that the Republic did not even pick up the fact on their radars. Or at least, they didn't make it public to avoid panic." She paused, fixing her gaze upon them as if to underline the weight of each word she was uttering. “Ordo's contacts have reported sightings of TIE fighters and imperial-like emblems. And Gideon is there,” she finished dryly. "At first, it looked like he took refuge there just to lick his wounds... but it's clear that he decided to go big after Nevarro's defeat."

" _Osik_ ," Skull cursed, with only half of his voice sounding less deep than usual.

Ruusaan felt a queasy sense of oppression in her chest, and moved her gaze beyond the window, towards the devastation of the once fertile fields of Concord Dawn. It seemed an all too realistic mirror of what might have happened on Onderon. Or Mandalore. Or Nevarro. She didn't want to think about Alderaan: she refused to let that thought emerge.

Losing Onderon, a beacon of resistance and a stronghold for the fiercest opponents of the Empire, or anyone who believed themselves powerful enough to lord over the Galaxy, meant stealing a vital organ from the New Republic. And from themselves, from those scattered Sons of Mandalore in disarray who had lost home, family, and honor at the hands of the Empire, and who still struggled to form a united front.

"Get ready, _vode an_ ," murmured Bo-Katan, with a veil of forced solemnity that echoed ancient war songs never quite forgotten. "We all know what this means."

Ruusaan gulped down dryly, and suddenly, the durasteel walls no longer seemed so solid at the thought of the assault blasters of an Imperial Star Destroyer.

Fenn Rau finished the sentence, with a snap that rang clearer than a sarlacc's jaws:

"They're coming back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out: not everything that has been said on Boba is true. This is strictly from Ruusaan and Bo's perspective, which is of course biased (this is also and especially true for what will be said in the next chapter).
> 
> I'm building on the little info we have about post-Rebels Bo... that is, that she somehow lost the Darksaber to Gideon, and that she is basically acting solo along with just a few other Mandalorians (two [?] in the series, obviously more in this version). 
> 
> More on it in the next chapter!


	7. Traces (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M AN IDIOT. I posted this chapter a couple of days ago and I accidentally cut off the beginning... so yeah, if you were confused about it, you were ABSOLUTELY RIGHT.  
> I'm trying this again... sorry, but lately university has been sucking life, patience and focus out of me; writing&translating lifts me up, but I happen to make silly mistakes like this one.
> 
> Anyway, here you go. Thanks for the amazing feedback in the previous chapters (and on other stories as well, I really wasn't expecting it and it warmed my heart. Did I say I love this community/fandom? well, I do ♥)

Episode 2

**TRACES**

Part IV

"They're coming back."

The silence following Fenn's words was deafening, only nicked by the light tapping of debris on the windows. Ruusaan was the first to break it, despite her tightened throat:

"That _Kom'rk_ patrol ..."

"Yes," Bo-Katan answered quickly. 'They are headed for Onderon; others are preparing to leave for Mandalore. "

"Mandalore?" Ruusaan repeated, more perplexed than ever.

Their planet had been close to deserted since the days of the Great Purge, except for a few scattered and lonely clans and a small community of New Mandalorians in Keldabe. Sundari was a fortress of the New Republic, a more symbolic than functional acquisition, but still fiercely protected like a trophy.

She doubted that the Empire had any interest in those wastelands dotted with thick forests, especially after stripping the surface of every vein and speck of beskar. They had clearly chosen Onderon as their new operations hub.

“I don't want to leave anything to chance. Last time we underestimated the ‘inner’ danger, we almost lost everything," emphasized Bo-Katan, with a hint of sadness in her voice.

"You mean the _Kyr'tsad?_ " Fenn asked, spelling that hard-edged word with contempt.

Ruusaan stiffened her shoulders. It was now rare to hear the Death Watch’s name in Mando'a, as if they wanted to throw that part of history into oblivion, denying it any connection with their culture. Personally, she felt a sense of discomfort whenever it happened. Bo-Katan seemed quite upset too – after all, it was also _her_ past, and _her_ shadow - but she replied without the slightest inflection:

“Ironically, Gideon could really have done us a favor and exterminated them all. But we know how the _bas'an shev'la_ works. The Watch has impeccably carried the tactic out more than once, disappearing and then rising from the ashes at the least suitable moment. "

"We have to suffocate them in the bud," Ruusaan interjected, much more vehemently than she intended to, and was met with a surprised look from both of them.

But she could swear there was a spark of approval in Fenn's, while Bo-Katan just frowned, hesitating for a split second.

"That’s the plan. I'm sending a squadron to Kyrimorut: if there is anyone who may have noticed restlessness on Mandalore, that’s the Skiratas. Ordo is prepping his fighter just now. " She then turned to her husband: "Fenn, I gave the order to take off for Onderon just a few minutes before you and Ruusaan arrived. You might be able to bridge the gap if you leave now..."

Fenn looked unusually tentative as his gaze darted outside, towards the sky, then warily back at her. Ruusaan had sensed that subtle tension in Bo-Katan's voice as well, meaning the sentence wasn’t really finished, and just kept hanging above them.

"You've certainly seen us arrive before you gave the order," Fenn finally observed, reassessing the helmet against his hip. His reddish eyebrows creased, casting a shadow into his pale eyes. "Still, you appointed someone else in command."

The _Mand'alor_ pursed her lips in a guilty reaction, even though her posture remained straight as a sabacc die. Her shoulders stood out against the purple sky of Concord Dawn. She kept her gaze transfixed outside the window, then turned back at him almost suddenly, with a flicker of her auburn locks.

“It's too _personal_. I don't want you where Gideon is. I myself have given up on going to Onderon myself, even if I’d love to pay him a visit," she concluded, cocking her head to the side of her scar, with a chill lurking in every single word trying to cool off her burning resentment. "But you are my First Lieutenant, and I cannot deprive the fleet of your leadership just because I’d like to."

Ruusaan chose to keep quiet, sensing the static electricity that was building up between the two Mandalorians, forming oppressive storm clouds like the ones they had just left behind in Coruscant’s underbelly.

Skull – _Fenn_ seemed to ruminate on what he’d just heard: the stirring of his thoughts was almost audible in the way his jaw tensed and relaxed rhythmically. His pupils became restless, scanning his wife's face until they were fixed in her eyes. There was a battle of pride and stubbornness going on.

"I will _not_ go to Onderon," he finally declared, with a dry, forced nod. “I'm not sure I can avoid a direct confrontation, having the chance to find Gideon… I'd kill him with my ownhands. But I know we can't afford any mistake."

“The same goes for me. And no, we can't," Bo-Katan agreed, grimly, but visibly relieved by the other's compliance, which was certainly not to be taken for granted. “The late Gerrera’s warriors are difficult allies already. We must proceed with caution, or we’ll risk losing what little stability we’ve been able to gain so far. We won’t survive yet another civil war."

This time Ruusaan nodded along with Fenn, reassured by their good sense. She was gripping her own helmet so hard that her fingers began to ache. Ever since she had chosen to follow Bo-Katan, after the Death Watch dissolved, she’d always been well aware of what was at stake: _Manda’yaim_ , the home and the future of all its children.

But she would have never imagined it would take on a galactic scale. That’s exactly what they were discussing now: a return of the Empire, albeit skeletal and putrescent, would have put much more at risk than Mandalore alone. Its bony clutches were already strangling the most forgotten planets in the Outer Rim: Nevarro was a bloody proof of that. And Onderon was an alarm signal that had to be heeded immediately.  
  


"I’m off to Mandalore," Fenn said at the same time, adamantly.

He could have been willing to give in a little, with his wife and _Mand'alor_ , but not completely and not always. His stern expression clearly conveyed how he wouldn’t allow to be put in the sidelines. Bo-Katan frowned, then surprisingly melted into a half-smile that hid a hint of satisfaction.

"I won’t keep you. Ordo is waiting for you in the landing bay, he already has orders to wait for you. "

At that point Fenn stifled a half sigh, realizing that, as always, his wife was a step ahead of everyone.

"I'll pretend it was _my_ decision anyway," he pointed out, pointing a finger at her as a reproach. "Motir? Are you with us?" he then turned to her casually, as if the answer were obvious.

Ruusaan shot a look at their _Mand'alor_ , stopping the spontaneous "yes" she had just been about to let out. She hadn't set foot on Mandalore in years, and the very idea brought a lot of memories with it. Painful, of course, but also sweet. In her heart, she couldn't wait to go back and get lost in the run-down but welcoming alleys of Keldabe. Bo-Katan, however, shook her head, putting on a frown that did not look like that of a commander, but of a fellow soldier forced to say something unpleasant.

“Your joint mission ends here. Ruusaan, you’ll keep searching for the Darksaber and Boba."

Ruusaan barely had the time to blink, trying to take in what she had just heard, that Malachor broke loose:

" _Me'ven!?_ " Fenn all but exploded, his voice far too loud, and Bo-Katan shot him a look that seemed to sizzle on his armor.

Ruusaan was certain that the discussion was about to degenerate into a real fight. It was rare to see their _Mand'alor_ angry, much less in a blatant way; Fenn Rau was one of the few people who could make her lose her temper, cracking the layer of imperturbability that always cloaked her along with her armor.

Being exactly in the middle between two of her superiors, as well as spouses, prompted her to wish herself away from there and into the sarlacc’s throat along with Boba, with all due respect to the safety of Mandalore and the whole Galaxy.

"That son of bantha?" Fenn continued, with an imperious, slashing move of his arm. "You’re kidding, right? We lost useless months after–"

" _Commander Rau_ , you forget yourself," she warned him, this time as cold and sharp as a sheet of ice.

"’Commander Rau’ my _shebs_ , _Kat'ika!_ You are wasting time and resources on a _dar’manda!_ "

Bo-Katan's cheeks flared up, tinging her pale face a vivid scarlet.

"I’ll be the one to decide if Fett is still a Mandalorian, when I’ll finally have him in front of me and I’ll personally judge him!" her voice escalated to the threshold of a shout, as she stepped away from the window in order to face him.

Fenn mirrored her movement, and they circled each other like two fighting akks in their pit, waiting for an opening to draw their fangs in.

"Mandalorian or not, I’ll acknowledge him as my _Mand'alor_ when Tatooine freezes over!"

“Then you can go back flying about under the Empire’s protection as you did before, for all I care!”

Fenn almost turned blue at those words, with a furious tremble crossing his lips as his eyes turned to slits.

" _Jate_ ," he hissed, and then defiantly put the helmet back on his head, without waiting for the _Mand’alor_ ’s permission. "You go ahead and worry about a traitor: I’ll be doing something _actually_ useful for our people."

And before Bo-Katan could call him to order, he stormed out of the control room, stomping his boots so hard that his _beskar'gam_ rattled dully.

The thick quiet he left behind was almost overwhelming, enough to make Ruusaan's ears ring.

Bo-Katan sighed, so deeply that her chest could’ve burst despite the beskar. Ruusaan crossed her arms, propped up an elbow and rubbed her forehead, welcoming a deep breath as well while waiting for the other woman to calm down.

"He was being too compliant. I should’ve seen it coming," she finally exhaled, still furious but in a much more controlled tone.

She slipped back the metal band that binded her forehead, from which a few hairs had escaped in the heat of the argument.

"He's going to Onderon, isn't he?" Ruusaan said, rather than asked.

"He wouldn't be my husband otherwise," she snorted, planting her palms on her hips. "Great Mandalore... I’ll be forced to discharge him, one of these days.”

Ruusaan kept to herself that she had every reason to, marriage or not. She couldn't hide a questioning look: Bo-Katan didn’t usually gloss over Fenn’s fiery temper, much less in delicate situations like that one. Their balance worked only thanks to their mutual inflexibility, which loosened in the small things, but never in matters that concerned everyone.

"I'm not doing it just because he's not completely wrong, this time," Bo-Katan finally admitted, meeting her gaze and pulling her lips in a reluctant grimace.

"I have doubts about Boba as well," Ruusaan pointed out, aware that she was walking on the thin thread of her residual patience, but she did not seem to resent her. “But looking for him now certainly makes more sense than before. If he _really_ worked with the Empire, he must have seen the Great Purge from the other side of the barricade. And all that came with it," she concluded, tilting her head a little and peering directly at her leader’s scar.

Bo-Katan gave her a slight smile that brought a sparkle to her piercing irises.

“At least you’re keeping up. Yes, tracking him down is priority now: he could have vital information on both Gideon and the Darksaber... with Onderon in turmoil, it is cruciall to understand if it's still in his hands or if it's still on Nevarro." She paused for a moment, and Ruusaan foretold the continuation. "That's why I’m trusting _you_ with this task. You know the terrain."

Ruusaan swallowed as discreetly as possible, feeling that constant weight between her shoulders get heavier every time she heard the name of the planet to which she was inextricably bound.

"I'd guessed that much."

Bo-Katan retrieved the helmet, put it back on her head and then nodded towards the door.

"Let's take a walk. There’s a couple of things I need to talk you about."

  
  


They reached the outer guard walkway and were greeted by a beating wind raising dust into reddish clouds, which swept the inhospitable expanse situated to the offshoots of the still intact surface.

Sand and rock fragments tinkled against their viewers, blending with the metallic sound of the warriors still performing in the _Dha Werda Verda_ inside the facility. That rhythmic sound faded completely as the door slid shut behind them.

Bo-Katan led the way along the path running around the entire building. It was an old industrial granary, abandoned ever since the Concord Dawn catastrophe and converted over the decades into an operational base for the Nite Owls – and any Mandalorian who wished to follow them.

Ruusaan kept up with her, grabbing a flap of her cloak to prevent it from snapping around, caught by the violent gusts of wind. They stopped on the stretch of walkway overlooking the main entrance: in that flat area several _Kom'rk_ fighters and transports stood idle, with the typical three-pointed shape vividly recalling the Watch’s emblem.

Bo-Katan hadn’t hesitated to put to good use all the residual resources and equipment of those dark times: the Shriek-Hawk had been scratched off the hulls, the beskar and durasteel of their body armors repainted – although Bo-Katan had kept the blue. She said that its implied meaning was more than suitable to her cause and commitment: _reliability_.

The Watch had distorted that concept, betraying everyone's trust and arrogantly standing as the only, violent hope of salvation for Mandalore; but Bo-Katan was more than determined to get that blue back its original message to everyone’s eyes.

Ruusaan admired her for her stubborn choice. After the Battle of Coruscant, she herself had not been able to bear the sight of her own _beskar'gam_ , nor could she take the risk of being recognized as a former member of the Watch. Their shared past was the main reason she would follow her _Mand’alor_ to Malachor and back or into a black hole, if necessary.

The _Mand'alor_ gazed at the sky, now tinged with the purplish red of the Concordian sunset, then lingered beyond the large window overlooking the covered parade ground. Unconsciously, they both began to observe the small formation of warriors eagerly executing the last steps of their battle dance. The words corresponding to each step rang out in her head, and she found herself spelling them out in silence.

Finally, their companions broke the ranks as one man, winded due to the effort, and began chattering among themselves, some of them in the privacy of their helmets, some others face to face, sometimes with a flask of invigorating _tihaal_ at hand.

"May the day never come, when we’ll dance it on the battlefield again," Bo-Katan muttered, her voice deepened by the helmet's vocoder.

Ruusaan turned to her, questioningly. Bo-Katan Kryze was not a warmonger, especially not after her past in the Watch, but she couldn't be called a pacifist either. The other woman caught her gaze and tilted her head in a way that suggested a nostalgic smile.

"That's what my sister used to say, at the beginning of her rule," he explained then. "And I agree with her ... but wars are not won by stepping aside and letting others fight them for you."

"Onderon?" Ruusaan immediately translated, with a nasty restlessness that began to torment her stomach.

The return of the Empire was inconceivable. She could feel the terror clinging to her as it did during the troubling years of their hegemony. It sank like a thousand frozen needles in the back of her neck: all that time she had spent on the run, hunted by the Watch and the Imperials alike, forced to sever any ties that could have been severed first just to make her suffer. It hadn’t even been a "silent farewell", for her: she had not had anyone to reunite to, if not those she would have inevitably put in danger by doing so.

"They won’t be abandoned," Bo-Katan said with fierce determination. "And we won’t miss the chance to annihilate Gideon for good. But first, we need to assess his strength, and how dangerous he really is. "

“Taking Iziz is no small feat, considering Gerrera's legacy. They are ruthless. Gideon must have picked up every last Jakku survivor around the Galaxy. "

"Or he’s been recruiting." Bo-Katan folded her hands behind her back, clutching a wrist in her fist. “Very few are happy with the New Republic’s poor management. The Outer Rim is practically left to fend for itself, dependent on the Guilds. How bad can recruitment be, when you’re starving?"  
  
Ruusaan sighed at that bitter truth, but before she could say anything else, two _Kom'rk_ fighters took off behind them, tearing the sky with the shrill whistle of their engines. They parted ways after a few hundred meters, heading for different jump points. Bo-Katan focused her gaze on one of the two, marked by golden bands, and continued following it until it became a confused dot among the asteroids floating into orbit. She just shook her head, releasing a forced breath that caused a static wave out of her helmet.

Her apprehension for her husband was palpable, despite Fenn being an experienced warrior and a more than competent strategist. But they were still talking about Gideon and, although every Mandalorian was taught to hide emotions and weaknesses behind the beskar, they still were a vengeful people. Personal grudges during a mission only meant higher risks. And Fenn had a more than personal one with Gideon – it was clear by the way his eyes glinted with rage every time they lingered on her scar.

"Either way, Onderon now has one of our strongest warriors on his side," Bo-Katan finally declared, firmly, but with a drop of melancholy tainting her voice. " _Oya manda_."

" _Oya manda_." Ruusan echoed that assertive wish, staring at the sky in the direction where the Protector’s fighter had disappeared. Fenn would need all the support and luck he could get.

The _Mand'alor_ then turned towards her, staring through the narrow and oblong slits of her decorated helmet. Ruusaan always had the impression that the stylized owl’s eyes painted on the forehead were looking at her as something alive and sentient. She made no move to take off her helmet, and switched then to the private comlink, emphasizing the confidentiality of that conversation.

"Now, about Boba Fett. My orders are simple: I want him as soon as possible, and I want him _alive_ ," she said, back to her adamant tone. "I know you don’t share my views, and don’t think I’m eager to let him step up as our leader… but it is what it is, and we are out of options and resources."

Ruusaan held back a jolt of amazement at that confession, then pulled herself together, pursing her lips under the beskar. Bo-Katan could be an understanding leader, but she wasn't the kind of leader who shared the logic behind her decision-making processes, much less one willing to admit the precariousness of a situation.

"I find it hard to believe that Boba is back working with the Empire, since his quarrel with Solo is now history... he had a contract back then, and he wouldn't be the first Mandalorian who doesn't look at the hand offering him the credits," she finally said, weighing each word with the same caution she would use with a coaxium scale. "But now? What’s in it for him? He basically died for them.”

Bo-Katan just shrugged, her shoulders tense. A frown creased her forehead.

“And anyway, would you really be surprised if he didn’t want to have anything to do with us? The Watch butchered his clan back in the days."

Bo-Katan remained silent for a few long moments, only interrupted by the light rhythm of her tense breath crackling through the vocoder.

"It wouldn’t surprise me, but we need him all the same. We no longer are the Mandalorians we used to be... and you actually addressed the problem. Most of the Nite Owls were former Watch or Empire, and as much as we can raise our voice and invoke the white field rule, not all clans are willing to grant it to us." She clenched her hands on the railing, scanning the inhospitable expanse that slipped deeper and deeper into the shadows of the evening. "If possible, we are even more divided than in the Clone Wars: at least back then everyone knew what they were fighting for. Now many of us don't even have a fight anymore... we just survive.”

“That’s what Mandalorians always do,” Ruusaan promptly replied, puffing her chest with pride. “Waiting for better times, ready to unite again. It’s been like this for millennia.”

She managed to draw out a wry smile from the woman. “True. But what use is it if we can’t really reunite as a whole? I have lost all respect along with Darksaber, if not for the one you few still grant me.”

" _Kat'ika_ ," Ruusaan interjected, letting formalities aside for a moment and addressing her as if they were still young comrades in a wrong cause. "The Darksaber doesn’t make you _Mand’alor_. You weren't holding it when you split from the Watch, or when you took sides against the Empire and for the reconquest of Mandalore."

"No, but I was holding it when I decided to trust the Alliance to have _Manda’yaim_ back, condemning our people to submit to the laws and decisions of others, _again_ ," she blurted out, letting out a frustrated sigh. “They abandoned us, as they always have. Gideon would never have overwhelmed us if we hadn't let our guard down. "

She suddenly reached for her helmet helmet, taking it off it, and Ruusaan followed suit with a moment’s delay.

"Do you really think all the other Mandalorians would follow my lead now?" she continued then, his eyes alight with discouragement and energy at the same time. "The Wrens and the Saxons? The Vizslas and the Kryzes? The Tribes and the Protectors and the Clones? Following a perfect stranger, defeated by Imperial scum, wearing a durasteel _beskar'gam?_ " she gave her cuirass a flick of her fingers, eliciting a dull ring, far from the beskar's argentine chime. She shook her head, and her short hair picked up the dim light like faint flames. "I have to offer them an alternative."

"And that would be Boba?"

“He’s a Fett. His clan has always been legendary, ever since the Battle of Galidraan. Now that the truth about Order 66 has been brought to light, the balance and prejudices towards Jango have shifted. Our people have begun to understand that he’d never sold himself to the Republic… indeed, his only goal was to get rid of them. For how misplaced his views about the Jedi were, he fulfilled his duty as a _Mand'alor_ till the end. Boba, as his son and an outsider to our civil war, is the only one who could bring us together, regardless of clan and faction. He’s a neutral pawn. "

Ruusaan drew back a little and compressed her lips to that last statement, with old, ancestral grudges trying to resurface in a bubble of reproach:

"What if we find out that he served the Empire during the Great Purge?"

Bo-Katan forced a sad smile:

"The white field rule applies to everyone, _ner vod_." She stared at her sternly, with a look at her right shoulder strap where the _jai’galaar_ once flew. “But not in all cases. I want to hear him out. I want information on Gideon and the Darksaber. And I want to kill him while looking him in the eye, if it comes to it."

Ruusaan nodded slowly, in a solemn way that sealed that decision: it was a good compromise. An order she could have followed without having to deceive herself.

" _Jate_ ," she concluded, firmly. “Then I'll go after him. Nex has given us some contacts on Nar Shaddaa who may have worked with him in the last years. Then I’ll hit the lead on Nevarro." She tried to say that last part as casually as she could.

Bo-Katan nodded, but seemed to become distant for a moment, eyes transfixed on the barren plains of Concord Dawn. Ruusaan frowned, sensing something unspoken hovering above them.

"Is that all?"

"No," the _Mand'alor_ quickly replied, releasing the word like a blaster shot. "A few days ago, we came across yet another couple of strayed Mandalorians from Nevarro."

Ruusaan clearly felt her heart detach from the arteries and plunge into her stomach. _Who?_ she wanted to ask, but she ate that question back.

"Where?" she asked instead, struggling to keep her tone flat.

"In the Zygerrian sector," the _Mand'alor_ sighed, drumming with her chrome gloves on the balustrade. "Escaped from one of the last remaining slave trade circuits after they killed a buyer."

"Apparently, the New Republic isn't careful enough to notice the market is still active."

"Or maybe, the much-esteemed members of the Senate can make use of low-cost workforce for the shipyards on Kuat and Bracca..." Bo-Katan wrinkled her straight nose in distaste. "Anyway, we’ve welcomed them, in case you want to..."

  
"How are they?" she interrupted her, avoiding the offer.

She got a stinging look in return. “We found them in pitiful condition. Injured, with shock collars still on. It seems like they were tortured... humiliated, above all." Ruusaan tried hard not to show any tremor on her face. "They had taken away their _buy'cese_... for a Mandalorian, that’s already a disgrace, but for them? I have seen survivors of the Siege in less anguish than them.”

Ruusaan leaned against the railing, taking a deep breath in the now crisp evening air. “It doesn't surprise me. According to their Creed, they are no longer Mandalorians."

"But they are for us. They just have to understand that there are _other_ ways besides their own."

"Good luck, then," she snorted softly, forcing a dull smile. "And how is the _integration_ going?"

Bo-Katan smiled in turn, sadly. The last Mandalorians of the Tribe they had dealt with had turned their backs on them in indignation, branding them as heretics.

"The older one almost had a heart attack when Ordo took off his helmet."

"No wonder... when was the last time you saw Ordo in a good mood?"

Bo-Katan allowed herself a tight-lipped chuckle, quickly smothered by a grimace of disappointment. “It is insane how much those madmen have misled our traditions. If it weren't for you, by seeing how they live and how they talk I would think they were a Death Watch’s sleeper cell."

Ruusaan sighed, though she felt a shiver at the thought. The Tribe she had come to know was only very conservative and closed to the outside world, but devoid of any supremacist ambitions. Could she say the same about all the other Tribes?

“We can call them ‘Children of the Watch’ all you like, but I assure you that they are harmless. They cut all ties with them exactly because of their extremism, and they wanted to protect the Foundlings from recruitment. Believe me, the last thing they wish for is the supremacy of Mandalore..." Then she sighed, almost tenderly, mind clouded by memories: "They believe themselves to be good _Mando’ade_ , but they barely know what that really means. "

"You can say that," Bo-Katan scoffed. "You know what the younger one’s name is?"

Ruusaan ignored the lost beats of her heart and shrugged, inviting the answer that, she sensed, was supposed to be the only subject of that particular conversation.

"Paz. Paz _Vizsla_ ,” she added, letting that name slide over her tongue like venom.

Ruusaan froze, clutching the railing in her hands with way more force than necessary. How was she supposed to react? Pretending she didn’t know him? Faking horror or disdain? And for what?

She clearly remembered Paz. In her memories, he was a stocky, overly impetuous kid, with a smattering of freckles framing a naughty smile. Pre Vizsla, their brutal ex-commander in the Watch, was just a faded shadow, well hidden in his ash-blond hair, in his pointed chin, in the narrow line of his eyebrows. But it had never reached his eyes, which remained a clear blue even when the beskar came to shield them.

It had been so long ago, but she also remembered the heated, comradely rivalry between him and her _ad'ika_. And despite all the broken noses, the fights and the skirmishes, Paz had never raised a finger too much on the smaller and younger boy. She fleetingly wondered if their stormy friendship survived, or if things had changed between them after she left for good. It was a futile thought, a mother’s one, and it rose spontaneously in her mind.

"A Vizsla," she finally found the will to repeat, shaking her head as to tear herself away from that swirl of memories. "He’s oblivious to all, I guess."

"Of course. Ordo almost killed him on the spot when he picked up the resemblance with Pre and forced him to reveal his full name. I can't blame him. "

“Ordo would like to kill me on the spot too. And even Sk– _Fenn_ is looking forward to it. I'm afraid they're just waiting for the right moment," Ruusaan snorted, raising an eyebrow.

" _Fen'ika_ has finally taken a liking to you, believe me. He can’t be too harsh on you without being harsh with me or himself."

Ruusaan nodded distractedly, trying to get away from the Tribe, from Nevarro's memories, from the little boy in the red hood who used to run to her when she came back from...

"Ruusaan," Bo-Katan called her, louder than usual and with her full name, and she realized she hadn't answered right away, whatever it was that Bo-Katan asked her.

" _N’etakisir_ ," she apologized, "I was just thinking about the absurdity of being Mandalorians and not knowing who the Vizslas are, or that there is not only one Way, as if..."

"No, you weren’t, and we both know it." Bo-Katan sighed, this time in an almost motherly way, despite being younger than herself. "Fenn told me that knowing about Gideon’s attack on the Tribe shocked you. And don't tell me Nevarro was just a ‘safe haven’ from the Watch," she stopped her, before she could say exactly that, "because he also told me you had some ‘contacts’ back there. I thought you'd be glad to find some of them here with us. "

Ruusaan gritted her teeth, feeling like a womprat cornered by a massiff. "I _am_ glad," she tried to say, knowing she sounded evasive. “But I haven't been in touch for a long time. The Watch has been chasing me for a long time, you know that… I haven't returned to Nevarro in at least fifteen years. "

Bo-Katan stared at her silently, and she knew she had spoken quite unconvincingly. But how could she tell her that she had been _banished_ from the Tribe?

" _An'ika_ , I know enough about your past, and I have chosen to trust you anyway. Whatever you did or happened with the Tribe, it will not change my opinion. _Cin vhetin_ , remember?"

_White field_. Ruusaan almost had to laugh. There had been a time when she really thought she had painted white that field on which she had spilled so much blood. But the truth was that she kept seeing that red, frozen just beneath the first layer of snow. Removing the Death Watch’s _buy'ce_ and donning the one of a simple Mandalorian hadn't erased those stains. It had only managed to hide them.

She swallowed hard. Confessing it all meant losing Bo-Katan’s respect, as well as any credibility as a Mandalorian. It meant being indelibly stained, adding black to the red of her field. She pursed her lips, feeling a bitter taste on them as tears invisibly pressed behind her eyes.

She could paint her _beskar'gam_ over a thousand times in silver: her _redemption_ would have always been at the bottom of a basement shaken by the explosions on Concord Dawn; it would have always emerged together with her hand outstretched to grab it. And it would have always, relentlessly fallen back into darkness, the moment she’d let it go.

_Bes stares at her with undeniable disgust: the golden metal hides her expression, but her disposition radiates from every angry twitch of her head and shoulders. Ruusaan gulps down thin air under her own helmet before speaking._

_“My priority is to protect him. I want him safe from the Watch, and from anyone who wants to harm him to hurt me. They won’t look for him here.”_

_Bes just nods once. “We’ll keep him and all the others safe, at the cost of our lives. The Foundlings are our future."_

_Ruusaan hesitates, before reaching with both hands for her helmet and taking it off with a hiss. Bes stiffens without uttering a word, exuding silent reproach._

_"It's the only piece in pure beskar." Ruusaan falls silent, resting her palm on the helmet ruined by countless scratches and blackened by blasters over the course of thirty years. "I’m passing it on to him, for his future_ beskar'gam _. He'll swear tomorrow, right?"_

_Bes just nods stiffly and takes the helmet from her hands as if she were snatching a relic from an apostate: with brusque firmness, but handling it with reverence. She lays it next to the extinguished forge with a tinkle; then takes another, brand new helmet in plain durasteel. Beskar is in short supply among the Tribes too, by now._ _Judging by the elongated, oval eye slits, it must be meant for a woman. She accepts it, though preferring the solid anonymity of the Watch’s more massive, squared one. That one looks at her from its stand, bluish in the dim light as if remembering her all the sins it’s witnessed._

_Bes stares at her as well, waiting. Ruusaan finally puts the new helmet on her head, inhaling the smell of embers of the newly forged metal._

_"This is the Way," Bes reminds her._

_For the first time, Ruusaan represses the instinctive, vital_ oya manda _that rises to her lips directly from her heart. The same, energic words she taught Din and that he’s probably already forgotten. That warrior-like hope, yearning for life, falls apart under her tongue._

_"This is the Way," she replies instead, the words leaden and heavy like the helmet and the son she has just left behind._

"I want to see Paz," she finally said, struggling, as her chest seemed to lighten and at the same time close in a beskar press. “Nar Shaddaa will have to wait. There is someone I know on Nevarro, and they might be able to help us find the Darksaber. "

  
  


  
  
**END OF EPISODE II**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bas'an shev'la: "the silent departure"; a Mandalorian tactic based on suddenly disappearing and scattering around only to reorganize and ultimately reunite.  
> *dar'manda: no longer a Mandalorian, someone who has lost or rejected his Mandalorian soul. Extreme insult.
> 
> So, as I said, I'll be following my own road and ignore the series' developments. All the chapters I'm publishing here have been written before its beginning anyway, so I don't intend on changing them accordingly (I just added the name "Children of the Watch" in this one 'cause it fits with what I'm going for).  
> I'm waiting for the season finale to keep on writing the Italian original version, so I can decide what to implement and what I'd rather leave outside the plot :)
> 
> And, yes, Ruusaan has a very dark past, but we'll get to it, including all her history with Din.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and feel free to speak your mind! ♥


	8. The Bounty Hunter (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: I altered the chapter subdivision in the Italian version, so this one actually belongs to the *first* episode, "The Bounty Hunter", as you can see in the title.   
> This doesn't affect the plot, since all that's been narrated until now happens simultaneously or has little to no connection altogether (yet), so don't worry. This was the original order anyway. Just be advised that this chapter and the following one will eventually be moved into the first episode.
> 
> And now, have yourselves some Cara ♥

Episode 1  
 **THE BOUNTY HUNTER**

Part III

**City of Gyra, Planet Nevarro, 9ABY**

  
  
Small clouds of ash rose every time her boots tread against the blackish ground, leaving behind jagged prints on the thin layer covering the basalt. Cara kept a brisk pace, even as she scrambled up one of the lava-leveled hills surrounding the city. The slope wasn't too steep, but she felt a sharp protest from her left knee. She groaned, shifting the weight so as not to aggravate the bruise. She aimed an irritated thought to Rodian smugglers and their nasty habit of shooting before speaking.

She had just now returned from a grueling manhunt on Bespin, but she was still accusing the difference in atmosphere, with Nevarro's oxygen-rich air causing her some occasional dizziness. To that annoyance, she added the countless ailments of a chase through the narrow tibanna pipelines, and a blaster shot that had knocked out her knee in spite of the durasteel protection. At least she'd returned the favor, and the Rodian in question had ended up rotting in a floating cell for all the trouble. It had not been the brightest bounty of her very short career, but the credits would have sufficed to cover her brief recovery period from the injury.

She crossed the narrow lava stream flanking the ridge and set about descending the rather steep escarpment, partly regretting her decision not to postpone her almost daily pilgrimage. But she couldn't put it off, not after seeing Bespin and the abundance of Ugnaught workers and technicians working there. In each one of them, not accustomed to distinguishing the subtle differences between one individual from another, she thought she recognized a younger Kuiil, intent on showing her how to live with the work of one's hands. No, she could never have not visited his grave that day. She was glad she did.

She finally came within sight of the crumbling arch that marked the entrance to the city of Gyra. After the clash with Gideon's troops, stumps of walls and other debris still dotted the highway streaked with E-Web cannon marks, like charred fingers that had clawed hard at the ground. She reminded her of the ravaged forests on Endor. Just beyond the arch stood their new monument, now typical for many of the cities freed from the yoke of the Empire. It made for a fine show: a row of blackened and smashed white helmets, placed as a warning on high poles driven into the ground. Cara had personally contributed to the set-up.

Karga welcomed her in the landing area just in front of the city. It was unclear if he'd been waiting for her or if he was simply killing time while scanning the clear Nevarrian sky for news.

"Usual walk?" he asked, his booming voice toned down by a drop of respectful sadness. Cara just nodded, pulling a half-smile as she stopped in front of him. "It's a bit far, isn't it?"

“I can enjoy the view, without Imperials trying to kill me. And anyway, I have to keep fit: bounty hunting sure is more sedentary than I thought."

Karga snickered, planting his fists on his hips and winking at her shabby knee.

"Already tired of lazing about? Then wait a few weeks, and you'll change your mind!"

"You're lazing about too, from what I can see."

He made a blatant gesture with his hand as if abruptly brushing aside that reproach.

"I'm waiting for my 'emergency resource'. Then you won't have a moment's respite."

Cara rolled her eyes playfully.

"You're talking about Mando?"

Karga let out a dry laugh that shook his chest, where the hole scorched by the Mandalorian's blaster was still visible. Cara knew that, since that "accident", he never removed the Beskar slab from his pocket.

“Ah, no, just an old contact of mine, back in the Guild. Although I always hope to see that unholy wreck of a ship land here... but he has 'more urgent matters'. I get it," Karga added raising his palms, to tamper what might have seemed like an accusation, but to her ears, it sounded like simple regret for the lack of a trusted colleague, despite their turbulent past.

"I wouldn't count him out for good," she shrugged with false neutrality. She hoped to see the _Crest_ land on Nevarro too, for how far-fetched that possibility was.

Karga pointed a finger at her, waving it severely as he spelled out his next words:

"If you hear from him, convince him to come back, every now and then: tell him he gives me a good name, and that he's always welcome!" he said. "Him and that... magical womprat of his," he added, wiggling his fingers in a confused but at the same time more than eloquent gesture that made her smile.

"I will, but I don't promise anything," she winked at him in a last greeting, before walking towards the Cantina.

The blue hologram wobbled in a now almost predictable rhythm, undergoing the interference of the millions of light-years separating them and distorting Mando's unmistakable silhouette.

"Come again? The connection is awful," Cara asked, turning the hololink knob a few degrees in an attempt to stabilize the frequency.

Mando disappeared briefly in midair in a handful of holographic confetti, then condensed into a sharper and more solid figure.

"Awath," he repeated, spelling out the syllables, in that rough voice of his. She had never understood if it was natural or heavily-filtered by the modulator.

Cara pressed her lips together, trying to physically place that planet on her star chart, and could only remember that it was practically the antipodes of Zygerria. Yet another exhausting journey, yet another long way from home. Mando seemed intent on visiting all the most remote planets of the Outer Rim in a pattern that was as uncomfortable and logic-free as possible. From one day to the next, she expected to hear him call from Corellia, Hosnian Prime, or who knows what other planets in the Core. The thought troubled her, on an irrational level that was all too familiar. She never liked thinking about the Core Worlds.

"I thought you would stay longer in the Zygerrian sector."

She readjusted on the cot, folding one leg under her and stretching the wounded one. She kept her forearm at eye level so as to not disturb the projection that came from the wrist hololink.

"It's been an easy bounty," was the laconic, yet predictable reply, preceded by the moment of suspended silence she had become accustomed to.

"I wish I could say the same about mine," she commented ironically, arching her eyebrows while glaring at the red swelling on her leg.

"Problems?"

"A little lingering hyperoxia and a half-busted knee. Nothing incurable."

Mando gave her a quick surveying glance, then nodded to himself - and immediately dropped the subject about his unusual destination.

Cara squinted, trying in vain to catch some clue in his gestures - a nod, a tic, a posture - but as much as she could read some of Mando's superficial emotions, she hadn't had enough time to get accustomed to all those telltale micro-movements that would put her on the right track. Spotting them through a shaky hologram was unthinkable. Mando was holding the cloche perfectly symmetrically, with the T of his visor facing ahead and his eyes, perhaps, focused on her - or rather, on her blue and flickering counterpart suspended on the _Crest's_ control panel.

"Awath is not exactly the center of the universe," she said then, carefully. "Very little traffic, a lot of salt export, and a handful of stable inhabitants. I thought you were seeking information."

Mando didn't seem inclined to interrupt her or answer her implicit question.

"So... either you're looking for some ocean air, or there's something I'm missing here."

The usual pause lasted longer, this time, just enough to betray a bit of uncertainty.

"It's just a stop-over."

_To where?_ Cara, however, stayed silent, noting the way in which Mando's helmet rotated imperceptibly towards her before turning back to look elsewhere. She guessed what he wanted to ask her, just as he had wanted to ask her the last time and the time before. She considered letting the answer to the Mandalorian's unspoken question fade out again, but she ended up condensing it into instinctive words:

“Mando, there's no need to keep avoiding busy planets. I don't think anyone is on your trail. Not even Gideon."

His skeptical sigh was clearly audible, annoyingly amplified by interference.

"I'd say _mostly_ Gideon."

"He could be, _if_ he had the means to do it," she then corrected herself, glancing briefly towards the slit window overlooking the lava fields. When she found herself staring at them or walking through them, she wondered how many Rebels had fallen under the stormtroopers' fire.

"The Empire didn't have the means either, after Jakku. And yet…" said Mando, with a tilt of his head, seemingly reading her mind.

“We wiped out his garrison and it would've taken him a miracle to survive that crash."

"We didn't find a body," he pointed out.

"'Cause he's probably lishek's* food by now. And anyway, even if he did survive, he's alone now," she listed out, with far more confidence than she felt.

"You _really_ think so?"

That question, mostly rhetorical, stung with the sharpness of too many well-founded fears. She made to argue but then decided against it and just reluctantly shook her head.

"I'd really like to. But the mere fact that he managed to escape, along with those _marks_ on the TIE fighter... "she sighed, thinking back to the inexplicable semi-melted remains she had found at the crash site. "I _know_ it's wishful thinking. I just want to hope you two won't be in danger if you ever decide to take a break from your quest," she said, bitterly.

Mando was right: it would not have been wise to lower their guard, even with the slightest chance of Gideon being still alive.

She pulled her hair away from her eyes, staring at the hypnotic way the hologram flickered in the dim light of her bare and unfamiliar room, animated only by the ashen dust inflamed by the evening sun. Sometimes - more often than not - she missed Sorgan, the grueling daily encounters that earned her a living, the occasional mercenary assignments, and the inn's sour, invigorating spotchka.

It had been a simple life, the only taste of normalcy that had been granted to her, along with something that resembled a home. Cara allowed herself a brief, sideways smile as she once again thought that, after all, she didn't regret making a commitment that went beyond the next round in the fighting ring, and making an alliance dictated by trust and not by orders and chains of command. "Early retirement" did not suit her, and that Mandalorian had understood it at the first glance.

Right then, she saw him propping himself up against the driver's seat, with the back of his head tilted back and his hands loosening his grip a little from the cloche.

"I can't go back to Nevarro," he burst out, unexpectedly answering the question she had hinted at.

He spoke in a slightly higher voice than normal, as if that sentence had slipped from his mouth, tinted with what could very well have been melancholy. She didn't need a droid's sensors to sense the wave of sadness that rippled from him.

"You're saying this because that's what your..." she broke off, unsure how to define the Tribe's enigmatic Armorer, except as someone with an overwhelming commanding presence and who probably also held command over the other Mandalorians. "... your _guide_ said?" she finally said, observing Mando's reaction. There was none, except for a slight, dry re-adjustment of his fingers on the cloche, as if he found that definition incorrect, but not offensive.

"No," he replied then, painfully lingering over that monosyllable. Cara instantly regretted mentioning the Tribe: as much as he tried to act unfazed, it was clear he was still coming to terms with his loss. She understood him all too well. "I would have done it all the same: the Child needs to reunite with his people." He paused for a moment, foretelling the next statement: "This is the Way."

Cara pressed her lips together, shifting on her seat. From his last reports, Cara still didn't have the impression that he was _really_ seeking out the Child's people. It looked more like he was seeking his own. Cara couldn't fully blame him, but couldn't stay silent either, feeling the subdued sorrow radiating from the Mandalorian.

"Are you sure it's also _his_ Way?" she tried to point out, with a nod of her chin towards the generic point where she imagined the Child was.

Mando's helmet imperceptibly followed her direction, without turning around. He paused, and he seemed to understand the real sense of her question.

"We are a clan now," he said, straightening up on his seat and resuming a composed posture, in the clear belief, or hope, that that fact would answer every question.

Cara just nodded, refraining from delving into that matter, at least for the moment, and she chose to divert the conversation instead. If Mando wanted to talk about something, he would have done on his own terms. It was clear he still needed time to process what happened on Nevarro. He'd almost died, after all. And he was the last person who could blame him for keeping too much to himself.

"Speaking of which: how's that green womprat doing?"

This time, Mando glanced over his shoulder and moved the holoprojector, framing the creature in question, now intent on spying on them from beyond the edge of the cradle, risking to tip it over. Mando leaned back to push it back and bring it back into balance, raising an annoyed verse from the Child.

“I thought he was sleeping. His new favorite game is trying to fall while I'm not looking," he tiredly explained, bringing his attention back to her, who couldn't hold back a half smile.

"I think you're getting the hang of it."

"I've been a Foundling too."

Cara feigned a shocked grimace, struggling to hold back a giggle.

“So, you're telling me you've been a vaguely adorable little pest too? I have a hard time imagining you, somehow."

Mando's slight huff sounded amused.

"I had my moments," he cryptically concluded, his voice suddenly more lively.

That caught Cara's interest, but she didn't inquire further, simply glad they were talking about lighter themes, albeit with painful unspoken words in between. They both remained silent, as they had done many other times during those months, quietly keeping each other company as if they had been in the same cockpit. After a while, she watched as he leaned over to flip a few switches above him, then leaned towards the dashboard to pull a lever. There was a jolt in the hologram, and she knew that they had come out of hyperspace.

"Awath is in sight," he announced, nodding across the windshield invisible to her, and there was a gleeful coo from the Child.

"Well, then I'll leave you to the landing procedures," she said goodbye, while bringing her legs over the edge of the bed. "Good hunting. And if you ever need some more… _gratifying_ bounties, don't forget about Nevarro."

"That's Karga talking?" he immediately said without any resentment, briefly turning to her hologram.

She did not deny, and just offered him a shrug and an unconvincingly innocent smile.

"In any case, you know where you can come back to."

Mando nodded, in that somewhat solemn way of his.

"Thank you."

He hesitated a moment, then the communication ended with a static sizzle, leaving Cara in the twilight shining in her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *lishek: a name I invented for the Nevarrian "dragons" we see in S1. It's inspired by a monster in The Witcher III.
> 
> I know, I know, this is kind of a filler, but I needed to introduce Cara and have my two space warriors interact :')   
> Btw, I'll keep the CaraDin toned down for realism's sake, since it's not the main focus of this work. There will be some hints about their fRiEndLy relationship here and there, but nothing too prominent plot-wise. Take it as a bromance and wait for it to (slowly) blossom ;)


End file.
